Chapter Text
3.02
Thought contains the possibility
of the situation of which it is the thought.
What is thinkable is possible too.
L. Wittgenstein - Tractatus Logicus Philosophicus
“A Doctor of Chaos?” Aventurine echoes, rereading the letter Veritas has handed him. The seal of the IPC presses into the paper, accompanied by a torrent of words that, to the gambler’s eyes and ears, mean absolutely nothing.
Veritas shrugs, loosening his grip on the luggage. “That would be me.”
Aventurine arches an eyebrow and reads it again, for the fourth time:
As a Senior member of the Department of Strategic Investment and one of the Ten Stonehearts, we are pleased to inform you, Aventurine of Stratagems, that you have been assigned a Doctor of Chaos until you have recovered from the traumatic events in Penacony. Doctor Veritas Ratio will attend to your mental and physical well-being for as long as deemed necessary. Until then, your leave shall remain paid, for no more than three hundred and sixty-five days, at which point medical assistance may be renewed.
Be advised that, pursuant to IPC Code Twelve, renewed last year, said leave entails a demotion from rank P45 to P40, with salary adjusted accordingly.
Furthermore, in the name of Diamond, we remind you that should you decide to return to work, the IPC will always welcome each of its employees with warmth. We place the serenity of our staff above all else, for the sake of fruitful and profitable performance, ever in service of the Lord of Amber, Qliphoth of the Preservation.
Respectfully,
Strategic Investment Department
In other circumstances, Aventurine would burst out laughing. He holds it in, barely, only because Veritas’ expression suggests this is no joking matter. The formalities are authentic enough, from the calligraphy in black ink to the rigid phrasing, every mark bears the IPC’s unmistakable hand. Yet several details do not add up, mistakes that only the dullest employee could miss.
First, the duration of the leave makes little sense when set against the indefinite timeline of medical assistance, conveniently left vague in the letter. After twelve months, Aventurine knows all too well that responsibility will shift from the kindly doctor before him to the iron grip of the IPC.
Second, the mention of demotion: he can't help but smile. It all feels deliberate, a perfectly crafted tableau where every puzzle piece fits no matter how you arrange them. The final image is always the same: a portrait loyal to the Lord of Amber, signed in bold with the word profit.
With courtesy, many thanks, and fond regards, Diamond.
Silence follows. Aventurine keeps turning the letter over, searching for a clue that Diamond himself has authored it. Veritas waits before him, arms crossed.
“And since when does the IPC care for my health?” Aventurine asks at last.
“They don’t,” Veritas replies at once, his tone grave. “I’m the one who insisted you be assigned someone. At first I thought of a colleague, but Jade made sure it was me.”
“Who?”
Veritas sighs, rubbing his temple. “Your Doctor of Chaos.”
“You are not a Doctor of Chaos.”
“I very much am. There are many things about me you don’t know.”
Aventurine refuses to budge. He lingers at the doorway, barring the way into the apartment. At last, he folds the letter aside, that eternal smile still unreadable upon his lips.
“I should have guessed you were behind this. And what a flawless scheme to keep me captive. Well, I owe Jade a bottle of Station of Freedom for sending me her finest babysitter.”
Without granting the doctor a chance to retort, Aventurine turns on his heel, already uncorking a bottle of champagne to toast his new, unexpected housemate. Veritas’ face sours with reluctance, and Aventurine drinks alone, feigning disappointment. In truth, the thought of Veritas lingering around, indefinitely, perhaps, is enticing. His mind brims with wagers of what situations might unfold. For a gambler, this is simply another bet, and Veritas his favorite chip.
“It isn’t my plan,” Veritas mutters, weary, after less than ten minutes of standing stranded on the landing, waiting for Aventurine’s golden head to process the letter. The gambler has understood on the second reading; the third and fourth are a game to test his patience. There is something in Veritas’ frayed temper that Aventurine finds endlessly entertaining. “It’s protocol. Like it or not, every Self-Annihilator is assigned a Doctor of Chaos.”
“Conclusion: you chose this.”
“Cut it out. And stop talking like Screwllum.”
“Oh, come on, Ratio, laugh a little. Can you imagine what kind of situation you’re putting me in?”
Veritas shakes his head, hands on hips, luggage still at his feet, an invitation for his host to help, unless Aventurine prefers to let him sleep on the couch. “Enlighten me.”
At last, Aventurine carries the bags to the guest room. “This will make me your little science project.”
Veritas casts him a sidelong glance but says nothing, letting his eyes wander across the expanse of the apartment. The space unsettles him—a modern labyrinth of high ceilings and sliding partitions, far removed from the modest calm of his single-story home. The penthouse, absurdly large for one person, crowns a tower of lesser IPC members. Three bathrooms, two guest rooms, a walk-in closet: all of it overkill.
Everything is too perfect. The sleek, untouched furnishings are arranged with the kind of precision only money—or a professional decorator—can buy, beginning with the armored front door and its suite of automated locks.
Beyond the narrow entryway, the claustrophobic impression lifts. Scents drift through the air: peony, then lavender, Veritas’ favorite. Sunlight pours through four glass doors, opening onto a forty-square-meter terrace with a retractable roof. The old parquet has been ripped out and replaced with high-gloss porcelain tile. What was once dated has become a showroom for curated excess.
The indulgences verge on parody: dual seventy-five-inch screens, three brand-new computers, artificial lighting that simulates a rainy afternoon in a city where it never rains. Three gentle taps on the refrigerator reveal its contents without so much as opening it. A cleaning bot hums across the floor, dutiful as a pet.
The cost of the place is so far beyond Veritas’ means that it should inspire disgust, but instead, he hears himself murmur that he would never buy such trinkets. Not like someone he knows.
Aventurine, part-time influencer, is a meticulous hoarder: jars, vases, containers, all arranged with clinical precision—not by his own hand, of course, but by a cleaner on retainer. The apartment is a mirror of its owner: dazzling, excessive, avant-garde. Yellow, green, black—colors repeated with obsessive precision. Only sangria red is absent, to mark the murder scene.
Nothing feels real. Everything has been replaced. Where Aventurine now sleeps, Kakavasha once lay dead.
Before stepping further, Aventurine turns back. “I offer you my room. I’ll sleep in the guest room.”
Veritas peers into Aventurine’s bedroom, brow furrowed. “Absolutely not. I’ll take the guest room.”
The other smirks, sly. “I dislike disturbing the peace of my bed. The mattress is wonderfully comfortable, and I want my good doctor to have a proper night’s rest.”
“Would you rather tell me plainly if you’re mocking me, gambler?”
“Perhaps I’d simply like to smell your scent on my sheets.”
Veritas’ ears flush cherry-red as he storms off toward the guest room. Aventurine does not miss it. Between them is the silence of the unsaid: as long as it remains, there is no need to impose boundaries. Talking would break the rules of the parasocial game Aventurine excels at.
Topaz once reported that workplace romances rarely work; statistically, they are doomed. What would she say now? Here is Veritas, crossing the threshold into unfinished business, staying who knows how long.
Aventurine wonders idly what, exactly, a Doctor of Chaos does. Studies—of what sort? Is it merely a polite way of saying psychologist? For now, all he can do is watch Veritas arrange his clothes in the wardrobe.
Despite appearances, the doctor isn’t so different from him: shirts, jackets, trousers, and an arsenal of skincare and hair products. But unlike Aventurine, he avoids excess, choosing items with minimal plastic, modest design, practicality over flair. It’s one more reason, perhaps, why things could never work between them.
If he’s being honest, Aventurine can only ever list reasons why it wouldn’t work.
They tried once, before Penacony, drawn by a strong mutual attraction. It ended poorly. Still, there is no denying they are excellent at fucking.
“So, while you’re here, how should I address you? Doctor?”
“You already do.”
“But now it’s official!”
“Think of me as a friend.”
Friend. Aventurine turns the word over and over in his mind. In the world of wagers, a friend is the perfect companion right up until the cards are reveal. Just as easily, he’s an alibi on demand.
But with Veritas, it’s never been that simple.
To Aventurine, their bond has always felt like a dance—one that began the day a gun barrel met his chest and three empty shots struck the opening notes. He still doesn’t know what friend means to Veritas. But if it means dancing, then Aventurine accepts the invitation with a smile of his own.
“You still haven’t graced me with your complaints,” Veritas says, eyes fixed on the wardrobe. “I’m starting to worry you like the IPC’s decision.”
”I'm a strategist, doctor. I’ve already weighed the pros and cons of our cohabitation.” Aventurine says, leaning against the doorway, arms crossed. His voice cracks, the words slipping out soft. "So far, I see no cons. No one’s ever made a choice this precious for me, let alone told me to keep living."
As he speaks, he absently turns the sapphire ring on his finger. He’s trying—trying to live, even just one more day. Veritas’ message still waits on his bedside table each night, in case he forgets.
Veritas looks at him, and the silence that follows feels familiar, welcome. But beneath it pulses something restless. When Aventurine is most honest, his heart stumbles like soldiers tripping over each other in his chest. He’s learning to live with that too.
Relief escapes him in a quiet sigh as Veritas nods. Aventurine turns his head and smiles. The doctor returns to his luggage.
There’s more he wants to say about the weight that pins him down each morning, the desire to disappear beneath the blankets and never emerge. Procrastination isn’t the word. It’s dread. And the Corporation doesn’t tolerate dread or sick days. They’d haul him into court before letting him rest.
So, no: he isn’t against the IPC’s decision. The less time he spends at headquarters, the more of himself he might actually keep.
“Maybe you still think your life has no meaning,” Veritas says, breaking the silence. Aventurine’s eyes widen; his mouth opens to protest, but nothing comes out. “And it’s not my job to change your mind. My job is only to show you that alternatives to this lifestyle of yours do exist.”
“Lifestyle?” Aventurine echoes. “Most of my wounds have healed. I’m not made of plaster, doctor, and I haven’t set foot in a casino since I woke up in the hospital.”
“Congratulations,” Veritas comments dryly. “But the IPC didn’t send me for your physical health. It’s what goes through your head that worries me.”
“Worries you?”
Aventurine crosses his arms. Finally, Veritas rises from the floor, leaving the open suitcase abandoned. Whenever they stand face to face, Aventurine truly grasps how much the man’s presence towers over him. He bites his lip.
“What’s so strange about that?”
“Your attitude after Penacony, for one.” When Veritas rolls his eyes, Aventurine presses on: “What? You’re always the one who says we should talk. Well, here we are. Talking.”
“What did I seem like to you before Penacony?”
Aventurine decides such a question is unfair. Part of him wants to answer that their cooperation on the Planet of Festivities only complicated things, and part of him doesn’t want to elaborate on what happened before. It happened, and that’s that.
Still, he remembers well those quick glances whispering and you? in the languid night. Thought runs quick when the mind is warm; Aventurine blinks and murmurs:
“Forget it.”
“Gambler.”
“What do you want me to say?”
“I don’t know. Maybe answer my question?”
“We’re getting nowhere. Pointless. This conversation is pointless.”
“Now you’re grasping at straws. We were talking.”
“You’re the same as ever,” Aventurine concedes, unsettled. “Exactly the same.”
“You haven’t changed as well.”
Aventurine arches a brow. “Oh, really?” His shoulder fuses with the doorway frame until he decides to end it. “I’ll bring you the robe and towels.”
He leaves Veritas in his new bedroom and heads to the bathroom, locking the door by reflex. It’s automatic, the need to shut himself in somewhere. Long conversations about everything and nothing make him nervous, especially when they’re about him. He clings to the handle for an indefinite stretch, eyes closed, forehead pressed to the door. He turns, rummages under the sink for towels. Unfolds them one by one, forgetting at once why he’s there.
A brown stain. The towel is a searing fluorescent green, yet the intruder catches his eye. Maybe it’s just wine, he convinces himself, as he tosses it into the washer. He stands a while with the towels draped along his arm, then looks at himself absently in the mirror. His free hand makes a terrible effort reaching for the shelf on the left: he looks for the antidepressants. He skipped them this morning; maybe it’s worth taking one. He swallows and steps out.
“Here I am,” he says as he returns.
His breath catches when he notices the good doctor shirtless, but it doesn’t last long enough to trace invisible swirls across the sculpted back. Veritas pulls on a plain black short-sleeve shirt. In other circumstances Aventurine would make a joke, yet the words lodge in his stomach. The antidepressant doesn’t stir him at all, and that’s a blessing.
“I was thinking of prescribing you a meal plan on my way here,” Veritas says casually.
“If it comes to that, you’ll have to follow me everywhere.”
“Since I’ll be your doctor indefinitely, I want us to set rules,” he continues. “My style is far from ordering you around, so you’ll have your life as I’ll have mine. I’ll also leave you my work schedule, so you’ll know when I’m here and when I’m not. It’s for good cohabitation. My first rule is: you’ll eat what I tell you.”
Aventurine no longer has the strength to resist. Besides, if Veritas isn’t home, he’ll eat whatever he pleases. “What else?”
“You don’t understand, do you? What eating well really means. One reason you might feel so low could be what you put in your gut, and how much of it. You need to manage food, yes, but also alcohol.”
“I eat enough. My last bender was…” Penacony. “Two months ago.”
Veritas shrugs. “It won’t be a strict diet. Read.”
Aventurine leans to take the folded note Veritas offers. Skims it. “Too many carbs.”
“It’s the daily intake based on your weight and height.”
“How do you know what I weigh?”
“I was the one treating you in the hospital.”
Aventurine’s eyes widen. He smirks. “Pervert.” Not that the idea of being touched while comatose appeals to him, but he’s grateful it was Veritas and not some other doctor by his side. “I call myself a hedonist, Ratio. I’ve got my virtues and my vices. As for alcohol? We’ll see.”
“Second rule. You’ll write down five things that make you feel bad enough to hurt yourself and five that make you feel good.”
Silence.
“I’m not trying to kill myself.”
Veritas only stares. “I want you to know this rule isn’t meant to make you uncomfortable. It’s to help you trust me. Without communication, it’ll be harder for me. Just five things that come to mind around the house. I won’t ask you to hand me the list right away. Think about it.”
“Do I have to?”
Veritas stands immobile, as if to say Why else would I be here? But what comes out of his mouth is different. “At your discretion.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“The first principle of healing is the patient’s willingness to heal. I’m giving you freedom of choice. I could leave right now, revoke the assignment, tell Jade myself that you don’t want me, and we’ll pretend nothing happened.”
“I do want you,” Aventurine says.
“The third rule,” Veritas begins, clearing his throat, “is that you’ll bring your hookups home. Not to the casino, not to their apartments. Here, to your place.”
“You can’t be serious.”
But Veritas is. Silence, only seconds long, makes that clear. Truth be told, Aventurine can’t recall the last time Veritas wasn’t serious—at least around him. “You can do what you want…”
“You’re not my father.”
“You can do whatever you want, but I’d prefer you do it in a safe environment, after making sure your guest is at least a civil person. I’d rather avoid having to come save you from the most inconvenient places.”
“Come now, that’s never happened.”
“If I recall correctly,” Veritas says, rolling his eyes, “it happened just a week ago, when I had to pull you away from that creep who wouldn’t stop touching you.” He isn’t angry; that’s rare. But there’s something in the way he speaks that Aventurine simply can’t grasp. He watches Veritas slip into more domestic clothes—a plain tracksuit like his T-shirt—and remove the laurel-leaf hairpin. The rebellious strand immediately falls forward, and Veritas brushes it aside on instinct, before it can cover his eyes. “I’ve got one last rule.”
“Since we’re at it,” Aventurine comments, eyes still fixed on his hair.
“You’ll accept me into your life as a housemate. We’ll take turns cleaning and cooking. No maid. And you’ll come train with me. The sooner you follow my rules, the sooner you’ll see me out of this house.”
The idea that Veritas might even think he is unwanted, that Aventurine wouldn’t want him here, makes him pause. Is he giving off an air of disregard—or is Veritas himself trying to draw a boundary between their spaces? Aventurine imagines, reflexively, an apartment split neatly down the middle with a strip of tape. Only then could one say: mine, Veritas’. The very image makes him laugh. It would never work. Especially when Aventurine still remembers the cotton of Veritas’ sweatshirt against his bare skin, and the remnants of his essence lingering on his thighs.
“So that’s two rules in one,” he says instead. No point dredging up the past, especially when it doesn’t match the vision he has of the present. How long has it been, exactly? “All right, doctor. As you wish. Except the list. That I can’t promise you.”
“From someone like you, I’d at least expect your own rules.”
“Oh, please, how predictable would that be?” Aventurine scoffs. “I live surrounded by rules. I know perfectly well they’re only made to be broken.”
“And who gave you that idea?”
“The Corporation, obviously.”
“Yet you still work for them.” Veritas lifts a brow.
“We both know I don’t have a choice. How is it the IPC even agreed to… all this?”
“They judge you as sick, unstable. Especially after what you did right after coming back from Penacony.”
A button he doesn’t want pressed. “And what did I do?”
“If you think it’s normal to have a hysterical breakdown in downtown Pier Point and, on top of that, lay hands on a P46 from the Technology Department…”
“It was pure coincidence.”
“Which one of the two?”
Aventurine opens his mouth. Shuts it. “You know what? Two months.”
“What?”
“You’ll last two months. After that, you’ll be begging me to let you leave.”
Veritas sits on the edge of the bed and sighs. When he looks up again, he almost seems amused. “Gambler, if your prediction ever proves true, allow me to correct you,” he begins. “I’ll vanish without a word, from one day to the next.”
Aventurine has no trouble believing it. But he also has a correction of his own: knowing Veritas, he would never do that.
*
Aventurine retreats to his bed once Veritas finishes dinner. Unpacking, signing a few clauses and the self-certification accepting his rank demotion—which also includes a few rules laid out by the IPC—turns out to be exhausting. “They can only summon me in case of emergency. And what would that even be?” he has asked, and Veritas has clarified: “If the Astral Express, or whoever else, ever decided to snoop into the Corporation’s business, for instance.” What’s the point of this, of that, Aventurine has kept asking.
In the end, there wasn’t even time to talk about anything else, like how the whole situation affects Veritas’ workload too. He seems to have carefully chosen a substitute to cover his university classes. He’ll keep teaching until Aventurine shows signs of his ‘episodes,’ or so he says.
Now, under the blankets, Aventurine can hear the doctor talking on the phone with a colleague. The call has nothing to do with him: there’s very little of Veritas that ever concerns Aventurine, while so much of Aventurine concerns Veritas. Today, the novelty is his mental health. He knows it’s wrong, but for once, he’s glad to be sick. His actions, his unfitness for living—those are reasons for concern to someone. Specifically, to the most popular doctor in the cosmos. He must have done something either right or terribly wrong to end up in such a precarious situation. He feels like getting out of bed, peeking through the door, where he would find Veritas sprawled on the couch in his plain tracksuit, focused on a conversation that clearly annoys him. Aventurine likes seeing him irritated, likes even more being the cause of it. The thought alone excites him.
“Are you still taking antidepressants?” The question from just fifteen minutes ago echoes in his ears. He’s been sitting there, filling out and signing documents, reading the clause about prescribed medication, pretending the subject didn’t touch him at all.
“I need to finish them.”
“You could quit.”
“It’d be a shame to leave the jar half full.”
“Half empty,” Veritas has corrected.
“Half full,” Aventurine has repeated. “Oh, to hell with it. Don’t worry, doctor, they’ll be gone soon enough.”
“And then?”
“That’s a question you have to answer.”
Veritas has seemed thoughtful. Then the ringing phone has cut the conversation short. Quietly, once the documents were done, Aventurine left everything there, made a small gesture, and climbed the stairs to his room. No pills tonight—first he prefers to get rid of the thought of Veritas’ bare back in his head.
It’s still too warm to sleep under a double blanket, especially when touching himself makes him sweat. He slips a hand inside his shorts, palm over the semi-hard bulge through damp boxers. When he grabs his cock, disgust creeps in, but he pushes it away and strokes himself at a restrained pace, just enough to finish quickly, a silent groan muffled as his free arm shoots up to clutch a pillow and bury his face in it. Afterward, he doesn’t even have the courage to get out of bed and clean up.
Veritas’ voice from downstairs has almost faded by the time pleasure overtakes the disgust. How long has he been there—five hours? Aventurine heads to the bathroom, grabs the sleeping pills, returns to bed. Before swallowing them, his gaze catches on the notebook on the desk. Suspended from work long before Veritas had arrived with the letter, it’s emptier than usual. Only empty cigarette packs and dry lighters remain. The tobacco lies on the nightstand. For an instant, he wants to smoke. He looks at the desk again and remembers the list of the five things that make him feel good and bad.
That’s when Veritas knocks on the door.
“What is it?” Aventurine asks, opening it.
“I wanted to wish you good night.” Veritas shrugs. He smells faintly of coffee. Under one arm, a pocket book. Rare that he read novels of all genres.
“Good night,” Aventurine says.
“‘Night.”
Neither of them moves.
“I was thinking,” Aventurine begins, “maybe I should change the curtains downstairs.”
“Why? Don’t you like the yellow?”
“Maybe it needs something to break it up. Like, I don’t know, violet.”
“My color.”
“Exactly. If you decide to stay a while, the place needs something of yours.”
“Yellow doesn’t bother me.”
“Violet won’t hurt,” Aventurine concludes.
Veritas smiles. “Good night.” And leaves.
Aventurine watches him walk down the hall, open the guest room door, and disappear into the dark of the house. If it were Topaz, or anyone else, they would have hugged before bed. He wonders if it’s a matter of affection or of familiarity. They have both, and yet, come to think of it, never once have they hugged: always just a handshake. Not even in bed, in moments of weakness, do they share any real intimacy. And yet they care about each other, Aventurine insists, because if they didn’t, they wouldn’t be housemates tonight.
Closing the door, his gaze falls back on the notebook.
*
Writing down five things that make him feel bad isn’t exactly difficult, he realized last night, the problem is that they’re not exactly five. He must have slept maybe four hours when, at nine sharp, he hears Veritas leave his room and head to the kitchen. Aventurine sits up on the bed and darts forward, barefoot, reaching the door and going downstairs, where the smell of freshly made pancakes instantly kills his appetite. Pausing on the last step, he remembers the odd situation. It’s Veritas’ first time in his house after a night without sex. He can’t tell if that’s a good thing or a bad thing. He goes back to his room and grabs the journal.
“Slept well?” Veritas asks once he’s downstairs.
“The usual,” he replies. “But at least I didn’t take the sleeping pills.”
Veritas hints at a smile. Aventurine leans sideways to check that there’s no disappointment in his expression, only satisfaction that something must have changed. From where he’s watching, Veritas is at the kitchen counter, preparing, as usual, the next day’s meal. Aventurine knows because Veritas isn’t that unpredictable, and considering he has class at this exact hour twenty-four hours from now, he’ll only have time to grab a quick bite between lectures. He has one today too.
Veritas is wearing a blue tie with silver stripes, untied, Aventurine’s favorite. Next to the pancakes, he’s slicing three carrots with eye-watering precision. Every piece is identical, his fingers curled back to avoid a cut, his other hand agile, quick. A clean slice and Aventurine blinks.
“What did you say?” he asks.
“Your breakfast. On the table.”
“Shouldn’t I be making it? What happened to the rules?”
“No rule stops me from doing you a favor.”
“You mean from spoiling me.”
“Won’t happen again.”
Aventurine laughs. “Heading to work?”
“Later I’ve got a lecture, yes.”
“Can I come with you?” he asks. When Veritas turns his head and makes a goofy face, not intentionally humorous but full of confusion, Aventurine laughs again. “I’m kidding, I’m kidding! Wouldn’t want to disrupt the stream of consciousness of my favorite professor.”
The Alfalfa pouch, tobacco, is still in his pajama pocket. He must have smoked the equivalent of a pack during the night. He rolls a cigarette in silence. He thinks the conversation is over and hums a tune with the filter between his lips while he rolls the paper. He likes to put very little tobacco in. Strange that Veritas hasn’t yet commented on his smoking habits. The patio door isn’t even open, but he can’t seriously be thinking of smoking indoors. Only e-cigs in the house. The tune he hums breaks off halfway. How did it go again? Doesn’t matter.
“Actually, that’s a great idea.”
Aventurine’s eyes widen. “What?”
“How many times have you been to a university?”
“Zero. Do I need to remind you that…”
“It’d be good for you, to get into something new.”
“…that I don’t have any formal education? I think I’d only get into the professor.”
“You don’t have to attend my classes.”
“You’ve got some nerve thinking I meant you.”
“You know any other professors?”
They look at each other. Aventurine props his chin on his palm, amused smile on his lips. Veritas keeps a neutral expression, sighs.
“Who knows, I might take a stroll around campus. Does the Intelligentsia count as the Headquarters?”
“If they recognized you, they’d avoid you. Technically, you’re suspended from the IPC indefinitely. Do you know what they do to employees suspended from work? It’s as if they don’t exist. If they caught you walking around Pier Point, no one would give you the time of day,” Veritas explains. “At this moment, you don’t exist for them. Not for Jade, Topaz, or Diamond.”
“Not even for Sugilite?”
Veritas shakes his head.
Aventurine throws his arms up. “Thank the Aeons!”
“Curious. You really don’t care.”
“I’ve told you already. If I could, I’d run from the IPC without looking back.”
“And what about all this?” Veritas gestures around. He means the apartment, the over-the-top luxury surrounding them.
“I’d find a way to support myself,” he lies. “After all, ninety percent of my income comes from the IPC, but soon that ten percent will gain value.”
Finally, he sits down to eat. The pancakes are warm, their smell filling his lungs completely. Veritas sits beside him, picking from Aventurine’s bowl the leftover honey and cream that the gambler always leaves. While the gesture isn’t unusual—it’s part of their closeness, though for some reason hugs aren’t included—it feels unexpected.
He turns his head, avoiding letting the doctor see he’s blushing. Veritas says something, “If you say so,” but Aventurine doesn’t even hear it. They’re shoulder to shoulder. Veritas’ feet are black. They always are, from walking barefoot in the house. He washes them who knows how many times a day; showers are just as frequent, Aventurine has lost count of the times he’s caught him bathing in his house early in the morning, after they had sex. Old stuff.
Now they seem unable to even look each other in the eye. Who knows, Aventurine thinks, what happened to him while he was in a coma. Second thoughts. What an awful word. He focuses on the shampoo scent of his roommate’s hair and wants to sink his fingers in. What a bad idea, moving in together! He thought Veritas smarter than this. After all, he’s a scientist, one of those completely out of their minds and incapable of expressing feelings to anything that isn’t a pile of gears or a planetary project.
“I wrote it last night. The list.”
“How odd,” Veritas comments. “Can I see it?”
“What’s odd?” he says. “That I wrote it so fast?”
“No point in arguing. Where is it?”
He grabs the journal from the table, opens it, nothing much to see. The half-blank sheet is folded, bearing the clear marks of a bitten fingernail run over three times per edge. Veritas snatches it before he can, revealing underneath a heap of notes, appointments, stray phrases, doodles. Galactic calendar stuck on May the 13th. Math scribbles during Strategy Department meetings, sketches of Opal with a pacifier, drawn by Topaz.
“This is hilarious,” Veritas says, pointing at a drawing of Sugilite with a maniac face, mouth smeared with fancy food, credits in hand. A note in different handwriting suggests he’s an idiot with an exclamation mark—the pen is red, so that must also be Topaz. Veritas focuses on the five points, the “good things” side separated from the “bad things” by a vertical line. Good, bad. The sheet hides Veritas’ face from the nose down. Aventurine waits, chin propped in hand.
“Well?”
“Five good things,” Veritas begins aloud. Aventurine nearly falls off the chair, embarrassed, covering his face. “Did you mean five things that make you feel good? Anyway. Gambling makes you feel good… and working with the IPC? Please.” Why not, Aventurine thinks. It’s his favorite activity. “I’m supposed to believe such poorly written nonsense.”
“That… isn’t the real list,” Aventurine says, flipping through the journal. The real list slips out of his hands and falls to the floor. They both reach at once and touch. Veritas wins in the end. “But gambling is on both.”
“No surprise.” Veritas keeps reading. “How long did it take you to write this?”
He shrugs. “Fifteen minutes.”
“Judging by the cross-outs, I’d say at least two hours.”
“As you wish. Fifteen minutes. Two hours. Same thing.”
“Read it yourself.”
Aventurine rolls his eyes. He opens his mouth to say something, but it’s clear Veritas isn’t joking. His face is deadly serious, jaw tense, lips a sharp line. Aventurine obeys, if only for now. What makes me feel good: one, stimulating conversations; two, a good dinner-aperitif at my favorite restaurant; three, gambling; four, being in control of the situation, a.k.a. holding the knife by the handle; five, sexual activity with multiple partners.
Veritas doesn’t flinch and Aventurine continues after a short pause.
What makes me feel bad: one, doing things that remind me of the past; two, when my self-esteem is questioned; three, when I’m unable to control the situation; four, being left alone for long periods; five, writing this list.
“That’s better.” Veritas takes the list and reads it silently. Aventurine’s face is crimson. “Sexual activities with multiple partners. I’ll pretend to read something more original. Being in control…”
“Exactly.”
“What makes you depressed is what makes you interesting.”
“Thanks a lot,” he mutters, cynical.
“No, really.”
Veritas slips the letter into his journal, as though it belongs there. Aventurine can’t help but wonder what does he intend to do with it. Read it in secret before sleep? Spin it into a treatise, a dissertation? Or worse, parade it before his students as evidence: proof that Aventurine’s life has collapsed, that Acheron left him only with confusion, that he’s stumbled back to the starting line without ever hearing the gun go off. Each day the sun rises, and still he remains unchanged.
Five and five makes ten, he insists, just numbers, sterile and didactic, a language to placate a man of science and culture who neither cares to help nor hides his pleasure at watching him crumble into sand. A shattered hourglass. Aventurine is shallow, paper-thin; perhaps the whispers are true: that he is nothing more than a thief, a marionette of the Corporation that baited him with freedom, only to bind him tighter. Now another mediocre man does the same. He ought to despise Veritas. But he can’t.
“My conclusion is that you have abandonment issues and bipolarity. From observing you these past months, even early depression. Hypersexuality. Who prescribed you the antidepressants? I’ll find you a psychologist.”
Aventurine blinks. His first instinct is to chuckle. “Wait a second, aren’t you supposed to be my psychologist?”
“I’m your guardian, gambler,” Veritas explains. “It means I take care of you. Last night I was talking with a colleague and he told me he’ll reach out to the best psychologists in the area. One of them, whichever you choose, will come directly to your house and will be paid with Corporation money, with a small advance from me.”
So he was talking about Aventurine on the phone. “Then why did you make me write a list of five points?”
“To give it to your psychologist. I can’t be the one, realistically.” The doctor’s gaze turns stern. “We’ve had sex. We started dating. We agreed it wasn’t right. Now we live together under different rules, but I know things about you that a psychologist shouldn’t know.”
Skipping the obvious question—which things—his reasoning makes sense. He says the antidepressants were prescribed by the Corporation under Jade’s orders, and he took them for eight years with various breaks of four, six months. When every other week you end up in the hospital with a needle in your arm for trying to end your life, it’s the least your employer could require.
Jade has always been above petty solutions to singular setbacks, but when she’s the only one who thinks Aventurine needs treatment, it’s not easy even to argue against the tribunal that wanted to sentence him to death for killing his superior. It’s already a miracle he was acquitted. And then, at least once a week, the usual tour of Pier Point’s gay clubs for a quick fuck, eight shots of whiskey, and two packs of cigarettes. That’s why the antidepressants don’t work. Who knows what his lungs look like. Veritas says it too. Maybe he should stop with these habits.
Patient number 170 of Dr. Veritas Ratio. Medical history: pain in living. Thirty years old last May 6. Sigonian, single, no children, lives alone. Allergic to dogs. White marks on his back, once scars. Quick whip lashes. Hypothesis: suffers from a dissociative disorder and tends to have mood swings. Hypothesis two: borderline personality disorder. Exhibit A for hypothesis two: he’s in love with Dr. Veritas Ratio.
“I’ll do as you want. Resisting won’t do any good,” he says at last.
“But do you want to be helped?” Veritas asks, looking him in the eyes. Aventurine tries to avert his gaze. The doctor takes his chin and gently turns it back. They’re about to kiss—no, it’s just a sensation—it’s Aventurine’s desire. A warm shiver spreads through his stomach. Don’t look at me like that. “It’s time you tell me the truth.”
“Yes,” he murmurs, tugging the hem of his shirt down to cover the knee pressed to his chest, one leg up, the other dangling. “Sometimes I like to believe my sister is still alive, that I went to school, studied fine arts, and now I’m an international dancer. I’d sing too, like those boy bands on TV you hate so much. Can you imagine it?”
“I’m sure you’d be the best.” Veritas ruffles his hair. “And I’d give those shows a bit more of my attention.”
They start washing the dishes together, even though Veritas should really be leaving. The university is far from Aventurine’s apartment—just the elevator alone takes four precious minutes to come down, with neighbors going up and down at all hours, construction on the thirtieth floor, but it’s worth it. Have you seen the glass wall in stairwell B’s elevator? Aventurine asks Veritas. You can see the skyscrapers, it gives you goosebumps. Shatterproof glass, the doctor reminds him. All the elevators are like that—no reason to be afraid.
But the gambler can’t shake the thought that someone still had to build it. Seventy stories. An angel’s dive from the penthouse balcony, eighty-five meters of pure horror. Aventurine closes his eyes and can almost feel the air pressure screaming against him. What’s the point of imagining things like that, Veritas says, if you’re never going to die anyway? Correction—you will die, but not for a long time. Aventurine asks what that means. It means, explains the doctor, that he believes Aventurine will live a long life, because he’s long-lived. You’re an Avgin. That simple, doctor.
Soap bubbles float in the air, racing each other to pop first. Some foam lands on Veritas’ face. Wait, no, here. No. Damn it, doctor, under your chin… let me… okay? The water is suddenly too hot. Aventurine turns the faucet and curses at the cold jet that freezes his hands. The foam slowly retreats, and Aventurine washes Veritas’ mug with Zero points! printed on it—a gift from a student in his space engineering course.
They chat about math. Aventurine likes math. Soon they’re competing in solving complex equations. Topaz has always been better than both of them, but the two train in hopes of beating her someday. Now they talk about her. It’s a real pity Aventurine is banned from seeing his IPC friends—except for Veritas—and Veritas tells him that Topaz is only obliged to ignore him at Headquarters. Let’s invite her to a movie tonight, tomorrow’s Saturday. Veritas humors him and says he’ll talk to her as soon as he sees her. Then they switch topics, the weather. Veritas assures him tomorrow will be sunny.
“All right, Mister Weatherman. I’ll trust your judgment. Because I really want to get back to running every morning. That Penacony mission made me lazy.”
Veritas frowns. “Seriously?” he asks. “Because it looked to me like you were in shape—that time you nearly punched Sunday.”
Aventurine bursts out laughing. Always a good sign, when he laughs.
*
In the following days, they agree to share responsibilities under Veritas’ rules. Slowly, the living room fills with boxes and papers to divide household expenses. The boxes are Veritas’—mostly books. The papers are Aventurine’s, but Veritas found them. Don’t mention it, he’d said. They split everything fifty-fifty. Bills? Half. Shampoo in the bathroom upstairs? Don’t even think about touching it. As if Aventurine would use Veritas’ shampoo-and-conditioner line—but sometimes, at his place, he’d asked to use the conditioner. That one makes Aventurine’s hair silky and soft like in commercials.
In the morning, he gets lost reading work emails, ticking off the ones that no longer concern him. Mr. Aventurine, you’ve been selected as main model! The offer to join a styling project tempts him—he has to admit it. Last year, it had been for a pajama line in Stellar Glamour Magazine, pajamas he hasn’t worn since he and Veritas broke up. The thought immediately makes him want to empty his inbox and say goodbye. But he doesn’t. He clicks More details and fills out the form with his name, surname, phone number. Superfluous details like eye color. They should know that, shouldn’t they? His eyes are literally the reason he wasn’t accepted in IPC missions for a long time.
He grabs his laptop and throws himself onto the couch headfirst. Veritas isn’t home: it’s his turn to do groceries. He’d told him he would come along, but they’d have fought over who would drive, and Aventurine wasn’t in the mood. One hand types, the other holds his old, battered ID card, a photo of him with bangs nearly covering his eyes, hair shoulder-length. Now it’s a little shorter, and those bangs are gone. Left hand holding the card, right hand on the keyboard. Welcome, says the screen with a peacock emoji, our team will contact you soon. Work that makes up that ten percent of his income—but pays well.
He closes the inbox and drifts into endless scrolling on a vintage perfume shop. Filters: 200 to 500 credits, max. Done. A call from his agent informs him the magazine request has been accepted, and they want him on September 25th. Aventurine listens and tells her to negotiate for the 26th. On the 25th he might be busy with a seafood dinner with his roommate, and he knows the shoot will last all day and leave him too tired for Veritas.
Then he stops.
“The 25th is fine,” he says. “I’ll rearrange my plans.” A woody-amber perfume with a silver handle shaped like rose thorns, topped with a rose petal cap—perfect. Description: hunger in a bottle. Price: 450 credits. Card details already saved. Purchase.
The agent confirms it’s done, they hang up, and Aventurine closes the window. His desktop wallpaper: Veritas and Topaz asleep on his couch after a long movie he had picked. He smiles. Opens a new tab, this time the Royal online store, watches. Fingers glide on the pad as he massages his stomach under the hem of his shirt. A green watch on sale. Forty thousand credits. He calls his agent again, asks for the PIN to his second card. Phone between ear and shoulder, he fills the form. Free express shipping. VIP package included. Purchase. Your shipment will arrive tomorrow.
He sets the laptop on the table and sinks into the couch cushions. Still wearing shorts. It’s hot outside—has been since June—but these last days have been unbearable. He doesn’t feel like getting up to turn on the AC, so he settles for the fan. Turns on the TV, channel-surfs while scratching his stomach. Peeks under the shirt collar. Thinner than usual. Oh well, the photographers at the shoot will like it. His agent texts: Do you still wear size S?
What’s that supposed to mean? “Are you saying I’ve gotten fat?” he asks on call again. “No, Aventurine,” his agent replies, their voice calm. “Just a question to be sure.” He hangs up and strips in front of the bedroom mirror. Spends at least twenty minutes trying on every outfit in his wardrobe to check the fit. After a quick glance at Veritas’ closed door, he goes back downstairs and drops onto the couch.
Bored. Maybe he should hit the casino. The texts he’d sent Topaz that morning—she hasn’t even seen them, and usually she replies right away. His phone magically ends up in his hands again, and he scrolls through videos from Ruan Mei, Veritas’ colleague. He likes her videos because they always feature her cats. Catcakes, she calls them. He writes asking if they’re for sale. She immediately replies with a firm no. Period. Line break, Aventurine jokes.
On social media, he’s gained a thousand new followers after posting a story of himself practically half-naked, sprawled on his bed. Veritas hasn’t seen it. On the doctor’s profile there’s nothing risqué, and Aventurine is forced to scroll back nine months, to a not-so-subtle sexting attempt. He looks at the pictures he sent Veritas—clearly drunk—and sees he actually looked more toned. So he has lost weight. He finds a picture of Veritas in underwear and zooms in on the spot where you can tell he’s hard.
Hard to believe he was watching cat videos two minutes ago. Aventurine gives in to temptation. Kicks off his shorts and calmly palms his erection. No need to come right away. He grinds a bit against the cushions, legs dangling wide open over the opposite armrest of the couch. Reads through the old chat without realizing how dumb his messages were. Come on me—complete with an attached pic of his ass in the air, back arched. Or Come inside me, doctor, I’d actually prefer that, not gonna lie. Wink emoji. What are you doing, jerking off like the little slut you are in some club bathroom? Veritas had replied, with an attachment: his veined, dripping cock.
At that glorious sight, Aventurine grips himself and jerks off—sometimes freeing one hand to squeeze what little flesh he has left, sometimes circling his tight opening. Since having sex with Veritas—or rather, used to—he’s discovered he’s actually very quiet, compared to when he had to fake orgasms for pathetic men who never satisfied him and always came on his face. When he masturbates, he groans a little, whispers Veritas’ name now and then, closes his eyes and pictures him from behind. He only comes inside because Aventurine tells him to—and then Aventurine himself climaxes at the imagined sensation of being filled with cum.
Inhale, exhale. Exhale, inhale. He opens his eyes again—his hand is damp and smells of sex. The phone has slipped into the couch crevice. When he switches it back on, aside from Veritas’ cock still on the screen, the clock reads 9:30 a.m. From the first call with his agent to jerking off, barely half an hour has passed.
Miraculously, he gets up from the couch—but only to smoke his third cigarette of the day.
*
“Do I look fat to you?”
Veritas looks at him, grocery bags scattered everywhere. First things first: off with his shoes and socks. “Are you asking me?”
“Who else?” Aventurine, still in pajamas, but with clean boxers, grabs two of the eight bags, hiding the dismay on his face when he realizes how heavy they are. “Did you buy me the SMOK liquid?”
Veritas tosses him the pack and Aventurine catches it midair. Abandoning any thought of organizing his share of the shelf with the new groceries, he waits for the liquid to trickle down into the e-cig filter. Aventurine looks at Veritas again, expecting an answer, while bending over the kitchen table. The doctor sighs.
“You’re thinner, actually. Or so it seems. At the hospital you weighed—”
“Don’t tell me,” Aventurine cuts him off, clouding the air with vapor. “I said yes to my agent when they asked me to take part in a new shoot. Remember that time I ended up in Stellar?”
“Yes. It was rather unsettling,” Veritas says while unloading the bags. A row of cleaning products blocks Aventurine’s face, still bent over the table, so he straightens up. “Sexualized, to say the least.”
“That was when we were dating, remember?”
Veritas nods. “Yes, I remember.”
“You went to the photographer and asked him to his face what his problem was.”
“He was an idiot, to say the least.”
Veritas replies almost as if he didn’t care. “Right, and then at home you had that long call with the editorial office, thinking I couldn’t hear you from the bathroom.”
“Hm. Were you listening?”
“Hard not to listen to someone shouting to the whole world that his boyfriend was being treated like a rag doll by a pack of rapists.”
“Did I use that word?”
He bites his lip. No, maybe not that exact word. “Ah, how should I know! It’s been months since then.”
“So, you’re doing another one?”
“Looks like it. They’re calling me on the 25th, but there’ll definitely be a fitting. Maybe they’ll want me tomorrow, or the day after.”
“I, on the other hand, booked your first appointment with the psychologist.” Finally, he stops pacing the kitchen. Aventurine would rather avoid that conversation. He doesn’t see what it has to do with anything right now. “Next week, Tuesday.”
“I’ve got a dinner on Tuesday.”
“What about in the afternoon, from four to five?”
“We’re starting with drinks at that time.”
“Which one?”
“Both.”
The dinner doesn’t exist and neither does Veritas’ strength to argue. Maybe Aventurine should just admit it by now. He talks about their fling as though it had lasted more than a month. Exhausting for both. Suffocating, as Veritas had called it. Aventurine tends to obsess over small things and depend too much on his partners. Aventurine, for his part, had complained of Veritas’ emotional detachment.
Raised voices and harsh words in the car after their last Met Gala, Veritas slamming the door and storming off—that’s all Aventurine can think about now. Suddenly, he no longer feels like teasing Veritas with this crap. That old relationship with its nine-month-old memories doesn’t exist anymore: accept it or retell it, it makes little difference. He helps Veritas empty the grocery bags, putting the food away in their spots. And yet, he can see the doctor is uninterested in bickering. It’s as if recalling a failed fling reduces him to silence. In Veritas’ language, silence equals anger.
“I was joking. Tuesday’s fine.” Aventurine pauses. “Am I annoying you?”
“No,” Veritas replies quickly. “But you could stop dredging up that story. It makes me feel bad.”
And there they are, separated by the table, two eyes refusing to meet. As if he were the ghost haunting his own house, the owner gone after a mysterious accident, his chalk outline on the floor left for the detective to study. Veritas, meticulous as ever, has seen it the first time he stepped inside.
Now Aventurine recalls when they were naked in bed and Veritas confessed he’d been a virgin until then. At thirty-five. Strange. Brains and beauty. But Aventurine doesn’t believe love touches him in the slightest. He’d be better off alone; no one’s ever lasted at his side. Aventurine is the exception. And even that is not true.
“All right. Sorry.”
“I was listening to an audiobook while shopping.” A deliberate change of subject. “It’s called On the Fall of an Aeon, about the death of God. Aeon as God, God as ethical-moral values. In short: the collapse of traditional credibility. Nihilism. The speaker argues that to move beyond what has lost value, one must create new certainties. Love, for example, has eroded with the digitalization of communication. Religion too. Aeons no longer divine beings, but concepts. Remembrance, Preservation, and so on.”
“I see. And I suppose you went off on one of your mental journeys.”
Veritas chuckles. “I thought of you and of myself back in high school. What I was then were the thoughts I had. Now, on the way to university, my mind is full of lectures: what I’ll say, how I’ll phrase it. Back then, as a student, my thoughts were about listening. Therapy is the same: you learn to change the way you think. That alone might help you. I tell my students who believe life must culminate in some grand meaning the same thing: you are your thoughts. One day, you’ll reach the last great thought of your life, and that will be you. No more, no less.”
Aventurine stays silent, replaying those words in his mind. Veritas always knows what to say. Maybe he’s even figured out the meaning of life while he’s at it. That way, on the road to Headquarters, Aventurine won’t need to wonder if things have meaning. He’ll just read it off him. Ask him. Ask him what that meaning is.
Cogito ergo sum. Something he’d say, no doubt. “But doctor, I’m already convinced. I’ll try to walk this road. After all, it’s not like I have anything better to do. One question. Under what conditions is life unbearable?”
“If the podcast is right, I’d say when your inner monologue is the same vicious cycle every day. You wake up, get up, have breakfast, go to work. Think the same thoughts since you were a teenager, and it feels like you never grow.” Then he walks to the balcony door. “I think it’ll rain.”
Aventurine follows him, SMOK in hand. Mint-scented vapor disperses in the air. Peony, lavender, and mint. More clouds, outside, gather over the penthouse like a second roof. Aventurine’s bare foot taps against Veritas’ bare foot. “You know a lot. You should teach me.”
“My professors at university used to say I just had a good eye for things,” Veritas says quietly. “You should quit smoking.”
“It’s one of the few things we have in common.”
“Because you refuse to see it another way. You’re not alone with those thoughts. I’ve been there too.”
Now he leans his head against the window. In the reflection: purple curls, red eyes, arms crossed. The usual pose. Aventurine sees in front of him a mirror of what he could become—the most stubborn man alive, condemned to decipher life.
He can’t picture Veritas depressed. And under what circumstances? Does it even matter? When he’s serious, he doesn’t joke, and Aventurine is moved to pity by his attitude. In another life, he’d have liked to piece the doctor back together. Share the puzzle pieces, see if they fit. Instead, depression must be it. His problem is that when he’s depressed, he has too few thoughts. Empty mind. Scrambled mind. Maybe he won’t be able to say anything to the psychologist on Tuesday.
“How did you get out of it?”
“I went to therapy, then I moved cities and quit therapy. I said the only way was leaving. I felt better. Then I felt the need to move again, but I stayed. I lived with two roommates, was always out. They had this habit of leaving the keys on the entry table to show if they were home. It made me anxious, so I never did it, but for them it was a problem. They said I came and went like a ghost. You’re quiet, they told me.”
He pauses. “University was different—I’d found a group of easygoing people to share my passions with. But I never built a close bond with anyone in particular. Like I was destined to remain the exception in my own banal loneliness. An old friend once told me I was ‘just Veritas,’ a self-sufficient island. That’s how everyone saw me. A man who lived for himself, by himself. A fixed observer on the riverbank.”
“I’m sorry.”
It sounds so sad, not belonging anywhere.
“No problem. I’ve gotten over it, and fully accepted it.”
“I see you differently, just so you know.”
“Oh, yeah? I’m glad to hear that.”
Eyes meet. I like you so much, he wants to say. “You give too much importance to conversation. Life isn’t just talking. I like your silences, like when you’re too absorbed in a book to listen to me. You don’t always need to force yourself to fill the empty spaces.”
The words echo a past conversation. At lunch, nine months ago. Just killing time. The feel of a glass in his hand, Veritas explaining a new project, showing only sketches. He’d drawn them. A diamond-shaped device with two open fins. Digital projections of planets, stars, galaxies. The Divergent Universe. Veritas explaining what it was for. When you start building it, I want to be there too. We should celebrate—your first collaboration with the Genius Society.
Wet kisses. Veritas asking if he was boring him with all that talk. Aventurine answering he could use his intellect to stay quiet. If you talk too much, I get bored. If you talk too little—wow, so quiet today, doctor. Words and few actions, that was him. And those words had been followed, as always, by sex.
Now, puffing SMOK nine months later, Aventurine realizes he’d acted like an idiot.
“Are you sure you want to do the shoot? You could take advantage of the work break for a few more weeks. When will you get another chance?”
He hesitates. “Work keeps me busy. Just two photos for a jeans line. I’ll survive.”
He seriously doubts it. Veritas finally steps away from the glass, and in Aventurine’s mind flashes an involuntary image of him pulling him close, embracing him. He wonders what Veritas’ arms would feel like around him after nine months of abstinence. He savors the thought, promising himself satisfaction in a few hours, when he can revisit it after lunch, in bed or on the couch, if Veritas decides to step out.
The sigh that marks the end of a stream of consciousness. “Let’s go for a run then, before the weather turns.”
“Sounds like a great idea, you know?”
*
The cold soon substitutes the heat; summer is ending but outside it’s still damp. Morning runs are the best. Veritas runs like an animal, and Aventurine doesn’t even try to keep up—it would be suicide for someone who was in a coma until yesterday, as the doctor himself says. But the air on his face and the urge to push himself to at least a kilometer before stopping, wins out, and Aventurine wants to get back soon to the days when he ran three kilometers every day.
Veritas prefers uphill routes; Aventurine loves the flat. So in the morning, he drives, dropping Veritas off at the top of the hill near their place, and then he himself runs back down at full speed, weaving through skyscrapers. Downtown Pier Point is a jumble of neon lights, traffic, and stoplights, but because they run at dawn, Aventurine enjoys the wide empty sidewalks and the open stretch along the river.
The autumn equinox arrives with padded jackets and hot chocolate. Instead of buying them at a ridiculous price in cafés, Veritas teaches him how to make them. It’s not the price that bothers me, says Aventurine. No, it’s the quality-to-price ratio, says Veritas. Sometimes Aventurine really wonders how a communist like him manages to work for a neo-fascist multinational. The Intelligentsia isn’t the IPC, gambler. As you wish. Need a hand?
It takes a week for Veritas’ moving boxes to disappear. Little by little, the doctor decorates the guest room as if he’ll be living there for years, and Aventurine learns new things about him. He likes string lights wrapped around fir trees in December, saving him from having to turn on the chandelier. His thousand-plus books don’t go on the shelves (those are for academic texts), but are stacked in pyramids on the floor. He reads about a hundred pages a day, but instead of bookmarks he uses scraps of paper, receipts, folded corners.
He has maybe five notebooks, one for each fleeting thought during the day. The walls are decorated with old polaroids; he owns two cameras and three lenses, from fifteen to one-fifty millimeters. His bedspread is dark blue, his pillows left out to air. The most unusual thing he has is a typewriter and packs of ink ribbons. He doesn’t vape, at least not e-cigarettes. His favorite cigarette brand is Grand Duke. The habit he picked up from Aventurine when they were dating.
Now the lights in the house are all off. Downstairs, three friends—colleagues, since workplace friendship is statistically possible—are watching a movie picked by Topaz. She’s sitting between Veritas and Aventurine, small, her bare feet up on the coffee table, red-and-white hair grown to her shoulders and braided by Veritas. Red shorts, a black hoodie that barely covers her knees, belonging to Aventurine. Or to one of Aventurine’s partners, for one night only.
A spy movie. Two and a half hours. Title: 008. The lead looks like Boothill—all muscle and metal, a Latin lover. Aventurine would happily comment on the actor’s physique if Veritas weren’t already sighing and shaking his head, as if to say: what rubbish, zero points. Topaz watches with wide eyes, a catcake-shaped pillow on her lap. Slim fingers tap the sofa in rhythm with the soundtrack. Bass booms from a three-piece Bluetooth speaker system, recently purchased. Works well for music and films; Veritas had just hooked up his turntable to it a couple afternoons ago.
Aventurine can’t follow the movie: tomorrow he has his appointment with the psychologist. Veritas showed him the photo: a man in his forties, but youthful-looking, fairly attractive. As the movie drags on, Aventurine checks the picture again and again. A mole above his upper lip, neatly shaved beard. Maybe it’s outdated. He checks the date. Two years ago.
“Remind me again why this is supposed to be the best spy movie ever?” Veritas asks Topaz.
“The directing…?”
“Mediocre.”
“You’re a film expert too now?” Topaz chuckles under her breath. “I was hoping you’d at least like the lead. All serious, doesn’t mince words.”
Veritas looks at her as if she’d just said two plus two equals five.
Aventurine sets his phone aside, crosses one leg over the other. He should say something, but he hasn’t really followed the plot from the start. The Veritas–protagonist comparison makes him picture the doctor in a tight jumpsuit, abs on display, a belt buckle shaped like an owl, and a laurel hairclip keeping a sexy ponytail in place. And what would he be called? Let’s hear it. Super Ratio. ZeroMan. Doctor Strange. He likes the last one. Settled.
Aventurine turns his head, reaches out to touch Veritas’ arm along the backrest. He tells him the Doctor Strange bit and Topaz bursts out laughing. The doctor neither acknowledges him nor pulls his arm away. His skin is smooth. The hair brushes Aventurine’s palm. With a fingertip, he traces the veins on his forearm. Topaz, sitting between them, doesn’t notice a thing. Veritas’ heartbeat is unusual, to say the least. Pale blotches appear on his skin, the hairs stand on end. That afternoon they’d had a conversation about the link between body and mind.
The human brain weighs twice as much as that of some animals, like a lion or an ostrich. Twenty times less, in other cases. He’d gone on to sketch the brain’s sections with colored markers: pink for the forebrain, responsible for thought and perception; blue for the hindbrain, seat of vital functions; red for the limbic system. Libido. The word says it all—at the head of emotion, self-awareness.
Veritas’ face glows in flashes; who knows if he’s blushing. He doesn’t show it, but he blushes easily. Aventurine feels his fingers answered by Veritas’ own. Totus tuus. The gambler’s arm is hairless; if he moved up a few more centimeters, he’d feel the ridges of the scars he already knows. And then, only then, would he pull his hand back. His eyes turn toward the TV.
“For the Aeons’ sake, not the sex scene.”
“Hadn’t you already seen it?”
While Veritas and Topaz bicker, Aventurine sees the actor on screen pull his lover into a kiss of tongue and teeth. Clothes come off in a second, the next cut showing them falling naked onto the bed, her face marked by the promise of riding him. Veritas lets go of his hand first. Aventurine glances to the far side of the couch. No reaction. He pulls his arm back as well and fixes his eyes on the cigarette butts scattered across the table. He gets up and lights another, standing under the frame of the sliding door. His focus drifts. It’s raining; the patter of drops is drowned out by the speakers. The actors go at it. A symphony of moans.
Aventurine once read that in Hate, a film by a famous Penacony director, Gaspar. The sex scenes—ninety percent of the runtime—were partly real, partly fake. It was up to the audience to figure out which was which. He’d spent an entire day analyzing them, scene by scene. 008 is child’s play by comparison. The actress is definitely faking. You can tell by the moans. Porn is easy to read from the moans, the face, the noises the actress makes. The male actor actually enjoys it. The female actress pretends. How did he even end up on this train of thought? Right. He was thinking about Veritas, about the slight erection in his pajama pants.
“She’s definitely not enjoying herself.”
Veritas looks away. Topaz looks away.
“A straight woman might enjoy herself like that,” Topaz says. “In the end, it’s not like they hit the G-spot with a penis. There are faster ways. Like vibrators.”
“I bet you’d know.”
“I’ve got Jade, I don’t need vibrators.”
Bull’s-eye. Aventurine clutches his chest at the invisible arrow. Ouch. “What do you think, doctor?”
“That we should pause this atrocity and go to bed. I told you it’d be two in the morning.”
Topaz’s arms are all that’s visible of her as she stretches on the couch. “He’s right. Do I get guest room number two?”
“I’m afraid so,” says Aventurine. “Unless the good doctor wants to share a bed with me.”
“If only,” says Topaz. “The mattress in number two is a brick.”
“We can switch if you want,” says Veritas. “Take mine.”
“And you two? Awake without me?”
“I’ve got a secret stash of porn CDs way more interesting than the scene we just saw. Poor you, missing out!” A joke—no need to spell it out—but Veritas arches an eyebrow as if he almost believes it.
Once Topaz, muttering insults, heads upstairs, the player and the doctor are left in silence, with only the drumming of the rain between them. Aventurine stubs out his cigarette and closes the door.
“Seriously, you can have my bed if you want.”
“And you’d sleep in number two?”
“Next to you would be better.”
“Dream on.”
There’s a pause, and they laugh together. They spend the rest of the time tidying up empty chip bags, e-cig butts, dead lighters. The TV is barely audible, tuned to the news. Twenty-seven-year-old stabbed to death outside a lounge bar. Robin’s new single “If I Can Stop One Heart from Breaking” goes platinum. Renewed war between the IPC and the Outer Planets.
A woman in her thirties, skyscrapers of Pier Point behind her, reads the evening report as video footage rolls of the Department of Technology’s armed forces marching across a barren planet. Back to the studio. Aventurine freezes for a moment, holding open the black trash bag for Veritas. The doctor follows his gaze. Who knows if he’s ever sat on a couch, in the past, and watched news about the war on Sigonia. If Aventurine ever appeared on TV. Time-out. Veritas switches off the television, leaving them in darkness. The click of the under-cabinet kitchen light switch is the only sound Aventurine registers.
“Would you like some chamomile?” asks Veritas.
“Perfect. Yes. Thanks.”
Veritas is pleasantly cordial, though quick to judge—critically, not harshly. Aventurine doubts he’s escaped that judgment; in fact, Veritas has probably made his assessment and concluded his brain isn’t all right. He’s only been here a week and already the house has changed face. The kitchen furniture looks ten years older; on the fridge, stickers and magnets hold up Aventurine’s meal plan and cleaning schedule.
The upstairs bathroom gets a quick clean every day; on Sundays, they clean the living room and kitchen together, do laundry, hang the clothes out to dry. What made me think of having a movie night on a Monday, Aventurine wonders, with the psychologist coming tomorrow and Veritas and Topaz working?
He sits on a stool at the counter, the under-cabinet light shining down and casting a deep shadow under his chin. Veritas sets water to boil. Aventurine points to the shelf of tea and chamomile boxes. There are three jars of honey, too. Veritas takes the one that’s three-quarters empty and prepares two mugs. The chamomile is instant, and Aventurine likes it lukewarm—cold, in summer.
“How are you feeling?”
“The usual,” says Aventurine. The usual is a quick answer to a complicated question. “I’m rehearsing the dialogue for tomorrow.”
“You play both sides yourself?” Veritas chuckles.
“Sort of. You know, I like to imagine we’ll talk about the things I’m passionate about.”
“You’ll talk about the things you’re passionate about. And the things that hurt you. One session you’ll leave feeling like a winner, another day you’ll feel anxious, maybe you’ll cry.”
“I rarely cry. I won’t start now.”
“I cried once.”
Hesitant, Aventurine asks: “Why?”
“I don’t remember. I was little. Maybe I was talking about my father. You’re luckier than me. You’ll be speaking within the walls of your own home. My sessions were in a small white room with cold lights.”
“I can’t picture you crying.”
“Only because we’re used to seeing each other this way. Strong and humble. In reality, it’s completely normal. People cry every day for all sorts of reasons. Something I’ve never really gotten used to. What passion would you like to talk about with him?”
“Him? Oh, the psychologist. I suppose dance, or fashion. I only ever talk to Topaz about those things. She’s a woman, it’s easier.”
“Toxic masculinity is a nasty beast.”
“We sound like two men at a feminist convention talking about abortion.”
“More or less.” Veritas sets the cups down in front of Aventurine. He pours the kettle’s contents slowly, letting a long stream of water fall through the air. “I’ve got class at eleven tomorrow. I rescheduled it before the movie started. I knew we’d be up this late. We can stay here and talk, if you’d like. Between boxes and organizing, we haven’t talked much.”
“You’re feeling cooperative, I see. But I’d rather lie down on my bed.”
Aventurine gives him a small nod, hoping he’ll understand. He’s not looking at him with sexual intent. He can’t rule out the possibility entirely that, knowing himself, if it happened he wouldn’t pull away. But only if Veritas wanted it too. Back when they were together, Veritas made a point of being clear in these matters, telling Aventurine exactly how he wanted things. This man who walks around with chalk in his hand and stacks of dusty books, a pair of reading glasses and rubber ducks in the bathtub—this man also feels sexual urges. And meanwhile he keeps looking at him.
“Listen, Veritas,” he tries to add in a neutral tone. “I’ll be blunt. I don’t want to have sex with you. I’d just like to lie down somewhere if we’re going to keep talking. The couch would do too.”
Veritas finally nods, without looking at him. He takes his cup carefully, not to spill it. “Your room’s fine, if it’s fine with you.”
Appreciating the response, Aventurine picks up his own cup and switches on the stair light so Veritas can turn off the one in the kitchen. They tiptoe upstairs, more out of formality than need—Topaz sleeps like a rock thanks to late hours and doesn’t hide her habit of snoring. Aventurine’s room is tidy, nothing to conceal.
Veritas has already seen the vibrator in the drawer or the condoms scattered on the desk while cleaning, and spared him the acidic remarks. They sit on the bed, one to the right and one to the left, resting their heads against the headboard, cups in their laps. Aventurine crosses his legs. Veritas watches the reflection of the shutters on the blankets. A half-moon hangs in the sky. At this hour of night, with light pollution at bay, you can even see the stars.
He doesn’t know what to say. In truth, he would like to have sex, and in other circumstances he might have taken Veritas’ consent as an invitation to seduce him. But he can’t. Too much time has passed. Maybe Veritas even likes someone else, and the fact that he has to take care of him weighs on him. Maybe he touched Aventurine’s arm earlier to be kind, or because he wanted to have sex as well. Something makes him think they’re both thinking the same thing.
“Sorry for being so awkward,” says Veritas.
Aventurine looks at him. “Doesn’t seem that way to me. What do you mean?”
“This. I thought, oh, here he is, the usual Aventurine, finding it very sexy that I responded to his arm during a movie. Come on, you couldn’t stop staring at me. I’m here to look after you, to make sure you don’t kill yourself, but at the same time I think… I’m a complete idiot. It’s my first time acting as a Doctor of Chaos, for the record. I studied for it, but I never had the chance to practice on a patient.”
“I’m not entirely clear on what Doctors of Chaos do,” Aventurine admits. “You’ll watch me for a year and write a report?”
“More or less.” Veritas looks at his hands. “A sort of anonymous report to respect the patient’s privacy, but it’s really for the people compiling statistics or something like that.”
It’s true: the more he relaxes into familiarity, the more he talks to Aventurine as if they were family.
“So the whole meaning-of-life thing is just nonsense?”
“No. I have a duty to know what you’ll say to the psychologist so I can give you the right treatment. Then we’ll talk about your dreams. I shouldn’t tell you this, but we’ve known each other long enough. I’ll be listening to your conversations and taking my notes.”
Aventurine sighs. “At least it’s you. If I’d heard that from a stranger, I’d have felt violated. But tell me, aren’t they supposed to be absolutely neutral? Not that you’re incapable of neutrality.”
“I just have to answer questions on a form that’ll be shredded one day. The tone you use, the words you pick, and a string of details I won’t bore you with. Normally I’d have a colleague do it. The problem is, you’d never have agreed to share your house with a stranger.”
“I guess my reputation played its part. Imagine ending up as the Doctor of Chaos for a psychopath.”
“You’re fine.”
“Nah.” Aventurine sets his cup aside and lies on his side under the covers. Veritas does the same until they’re face-to-face.
The gaze of two people who once loved each other is always intense. Now they just care deeply for one another. Their looks are heavy with parentheses. Like—Aventurine would like to kiss him. Veritas maybe wants to kiss him. If only for an instant he closed his eyes and pretended life meant nothing, he’s simply lying next to the person whose every fold of flesh he knows, whose erogenous map he’s memorized: Veritas especially likes having his fingers licked, or keeping eye contact while Aventurine rides him with pride.
For a nihilist, it’s odd to search for meaning in things. At heart he believes in nothing, only that life is a chain of disconnected events. Yet there are recurring elements that often make him doubt. Fortune, for example.
“One day I’ll free you of my burden,” he says out of nowhere. “I’ll find you someone who can love you better than I do.”
“Believe me, gambler,” says Veritas, “I’ve tried. And the more I try, the more I think there’s a real reason I always come back to you.”
Then nothing happens. Aventurine curls up and shuts his eyes. The result of all thoughts is the erasure of thought itself. In this moment, Aventurine doesn’t want to be anything.
*
As usual, he doesn’t sleep. Insomnia keeps him awake a few hours into the night, but that’s fine—he has the privilege of watching Veritas’ face, relaxed like a newborn’s, breathing softly just inches away. There’s a strange emptiness covering the bed the next morning. The blankets are rumpled, but Veritas has straightened his side, not a crease left in the sheet. From downstairs, he hears his voice chatting with Topaz. When exactly the two of them fell into such harmony, he can’t remember.
He stretches and notices Veritas’ shampoo still lingers on the pillow. He buries his face in it: it smells like him, and it means nothing. No, that’s a lie, it means something, just not something he’s familiar with. Before heading down to breakfast, he lingers to listen to his friends talk.
“Lucky guy, homemade pancakes first thing in the morning. Save me four in foil? I’ll eat them later.”
“He actually made these yesterday afternoon. I only warmed them up in the microwave.”
“Since when does he cook?”
“We followed the recipe together, and I showed him. He learned fast.”
Aventurine smiles. Truth is, he’s always known how to cook enough to survive, but he never dabbled in recipes until he started living with the doctor. Veritas has left him a clean sweatshirt and leggings on the bed—he slips them on, the cotton hugging him warmly.
Going downstairs, he rolls a cigarette, just a pinch of tobacco, as always, but first he swallows his antidepressants. He’ll need them later, when Veritas is out of the house. For now, they’ll kick in. Topaz usually reminds him it makes no sense to mix inhibitors with nicotine. He does it anyway.
His friends see him come in and say good morning. He remembers how, ever since fleeing Sigonia, his mornings had been solitary—the same repeated gestures, open the fridge, close the fridge, eat in your place, the news droning in the background. His first ‘good morning’ used to come from a colleague on the phone, too disinterested to ask if it was a good time. Before the talk veered into work, he would have liked to hear a friendly how are you. But it was already something to get a good morning at all. Worse if the caller was Sugilite asking a favor, or the Department’s call center checking if he could make himself available for a mission on some godforsaken planet. Usually it meant supervising excavation work in an illegally occupied mine, ordering around exhausted workers, abusing the title and the power he now held over others.
They should be happy, yes, that they are no longer slaves working in pitiful conditions. In fact, they should be assured that if they work hard enough, they will become the capitalists they work for. Repeat the cycle endlessly, traumatizing generations to come. Now it is others who suffer.
Yes. He believes he’s happy.
And now, without having done anything concrete to help those people, to free them from the same exploitation he endured, he sits at a table in a Corporation house, sleeps in a warm bed every night, no longer worries about crawling hungry into the next month. Pills as drugs to smother the urge to rebel. All that’s missing is a muzzle. His sister—he sees her in his dreams every night now. And he knows that, most likely, she would hate what he’s become.
Veritas serves him the bowl of yogurt he prepared. Aventurine eats in silence. Topaz looks at him and finally says aloud what her eyes already said: “Jade was right. You really are a corpse.”
“Topaz.”
“What? You don’t see it either?” she says to Veritas. “Besides the fact he’s smiling.”
“Put yourself in my shoes,” Aventurine says. “This is the first—the second thing I hear when I wake up. That I look like a corpse. How am I supposed to react?”
“Are you excused from the Met Gala too?”
“I suppose so.”
“Not exactly,” says Veritas. “Just from work. You could go.”
“When is it?”
“Ninth of November.” Topaz pulls out her phone and shows him the poster. “Elegant theme. Again. The Oswaldo Schneider staff shot down the country-and-cowboy idea. There’ll be a red carpet with the Stonehearts. Jade told me to mention it in case you wanted a distraction.”
Aventurine glances at Veritas, and Topaz raises an eyebrow. “You think it’d do me good?”
“And you’re asking me?”
“You’re my guardian.”
“Socializing won’t hurt you.” Veritas always has vague answers in his pockets when he doesn’t want to take a stance. “It’s still a long way till November ninth. You’ll know better in a few weeks, depending on how you feel.”
“You going?”
“I have to present the Divergent Universe.”
“Who else will be there?” he asks Topaz.
She ticks off on her fingers. “Astral Express, Robin opening, the Genius Society… who else? Oh right, Jing Yuan from Xiangzhou Luofu. I’ll send you the flyer, easier to read.”
The message pings right away. Aventurine scrolls the names while chewing his breakfast with his free hand.
“Mm. They really outdid themselves this year. My name’s there anyway. Guess they want me no matter what.”
“You’ll have to sponsor the new jeans line.”
“How do you know?”
“Jade recommended you.”
Her words plant trust in him. Damnatio memoriae. To him, it feels more like two women working behind his back, as usual, to help him. Goddess Gaiathra Triclops, his sister, Topaz, Jade, Acheron, even Sparkle in a way. Born among women, raised among women, loved by them like a son. Men are often the opposite—eager to use his body to secure their own goals. Most recently, Sunday, just to name one. Veritas is the exception. He trusts him. The bridge to cross to reach the other side.
Outside, it’s a damp and freezing morning, and his home would feel the same if not for his friends, one with a complicit look, the other pretending not to know. Aventurine looks at him as if expecting to be seen in return, but as usual, Veritas won’t take credit for anything. Topaz winks at him.
“The rules inside the IPC are changing, thanks to Jade. When a woman of her caliber takes a liking to you, you can be sure your mental health comes before your reputation. The Corporation still talks about you in a positive way. She made sure of it, plastering your face all over the new Stellar Glamour. Remember that special edition that never came out?” “I hope not the pajama spread,” says Veritas. Aventurine smirks. “You really hated those.” “No, it’s the interview you did for the jewelry line. This way you won’t have to worry about being forgotten. Incentives for the copies should reach you today. Don’t thank me.”
“You three are impossible,” Aventurine says. “And I imagine you had a hand in this too, Veritas?”
“And if I did?” he says. “I wanted to do you a favor. You’re on leave. Makes no sense to bury you just because you’re unwell.”
He remains silent for a moment, just to acknowledge their behavior with gratitude. He would like to toast them, the reason why, in a sense, he did not think of taking his own life after waking up from the coma. They took turns in Aventurine’s house to check on him, first Topaz—for longer: Veritas had to finish the project with Screwllum—and then it was Veritas' turn. They came so close to kissing one night. He rolled over, said goodnight, turned his back. Sleeping back to back, building a wall of books to mark off bed territory, pretending to be intimate like siblings. But he never used that word with Veritas. He did with Topaz—she’s his sister. Veritas’ reassuring presence, temporary yet permanent for a year, in Aventurine’s glittering house, signals a different language. They are something else. Patient and doctor, student and teacher, lover and beloved.
He wishes he could shrink down, become a cell in Veritas’ body, just to know what he thinks of him. Does he think of him at work? From what he’s just learned, it seems like yes. Since the coma, Veritas feels like an addiction. If he isn’t there, life doesn’t make sense. How disgusting, to depend on others.
Now Topaz hugs him at the door, and Veritas too. Topaz’s hugs are always tight, as if she wants to press all her love into him right there, only to hide it again. Take care, she says. Sorry I didn’t reply to your messages last time. Forgive me. Write whenever you want. Aventurine kisses her forehead. I will, of course I will.
“I’ll go change,” says Veritas, shutting the door. “I’m out in ten minutes max. See you at four?”
“Whenever you want. Hey, if you feel like it, you can stay in the living room during therapy. I’d prefer that.”
“Only if it’s fine with you.”
“I don’t think I’d be cooperative with a stranger, just me and him. I’ve never done this stuff. I’d rather you be there. But I’ll have to talk about you too.”
“I know. Let me tell you something—don’t take it personally. It’s normal to talk about me. Maybe you’ll talk only about me in a session, about what happened. Not today, maybe in two months. Doesn’t matter. But you’ll feel the need to bring it up, because that’s how it goes.”
“Normal, us?” Aventurine folds his arms, calm tone, a touch of spoiled sarcasm. “You never felt normal with me by your side.”
“You make it hard. And it’s not like I was any better with you.”
“We’re eccentric and stubborn. Fair enough.”
“So we’ve got something in common.”
“Of course. We were together.”
Veritas doesn’t reply. He gives a small nod, lingers, brushes the corner of the kitchen counter like stroking it. “I’ll go upstairs,” he says. The arguing must have tired him. Aventurine spends another morning on the couch, guessing today the jeans for the photoshoot will arrive.
*
His psychologist is the man in the photo. Forty-two years old, a kind person. Aventurine makes coffee in the moka an hour before he arrives, just to kill time. His name is Elias, and they agree to be on a first-name basis. At that point Aventurine tells him his name—you know, one of the Stonehearts—and the psychologist gives him a puzzled look. While waiting for Veritas to come back, they talk about the house.
Aventurine talks a lot, realizing he’s giving away details about himself without meaning to, but he’s comfortable enough. He tells Elias how he decided on the furniture layout, revealing that it’s actually been that way for a year now, that the kitchen renovation only wrapped up the year before. Elias asks if he likes how it turned out, and Aventurine says yes—though if he could go back, he’d change the spot where the TV is. Why? “I don’t know,” he answers, realizing he only said it to say something. In truth, he could probably just reorganize his CDs.
One wouldn’t think it, but he listens to a lot of music. The next twenty minutes they spend talking about Robin—what he thinks of her—and Aventurine lets slip that he wrote and composed a pretty famous song called White Night. Elias admits he knows nothing about the IPC, barely expected to end up as the psychologist of the Strategic Department’s Senior Member, but now that he thinks about it, he remembers someone humming that song in the hallways of his office.
That’s fine, better he doesn’t know much. Better if he’s not too well-versed in the IPC–Sigonia conflict. And the first thing he notices isn’t his eyes but his hair. He might notice the brand, maybe, if he caught a glimpse under the wool sweater’s high collar. Veritas picked him well, Elias. Aventurine dressed to impress, in the jeans he’ll wear on the twenty-fifth—perfect fit, in fact they’re tailor-made. Three afternoons ago they came to take his measurements in his bedroom, Veritas holed up in the next room so as not to arouse suspicion—and here they are, already finished, voilà. Very few people know about the whole thing. Almost none.
Stelle has texted him yesterday to ask how he was doing, despite everything, and Aventurine has answered with the upside-down smiley: They’ve found me a Doctor of Chaos. Oh, really? That’s great. Attached: a photo of the Gala poster and then a mirror selfie. Stelle replied with a selfie of her and the Astral Express crew. Take care, promise me. Despite everything.
He’d shown the jeans to Veritas after the stylists left, and Veritas said they suited him, though they looked tight at the waist. Aventurine confirmed it, lifting his shirt, and caught his housemate swallow hard before looking away. At dinner, he told him he was trying to clear his schedule to see the thing live. He knows a lot about photography—he takes pictures all the time.
The doorbell rings; he forgot his keys this morning. Lots of handshakes with the psychologist, and they chat a little to give the impression they’ve known each other forever. Veritas asks Aventurine: “You’re sure you want me to stay?” Aventurine nods, pointing to the single loveseat closest to the TV. One hour. It’ll only take an hour, not so long—and after, Veritas promised to have dinner and watch a movie together.
Elias starts jotting questions, Aventurine can tell by the question marks and underlines. They start off fine, talking about how he ended up here. Aventurine shoots a glance at Veritas—now like a ghost in the room, motionless, hunched over his own notes. Pretend I don’t exist, his amber eyes say.
At the question “How did you get to this point?” Aventurine tells him he was in a coma for two months, and before that he became a Self-Annihilator, the encounter with Acheron, and then nothing—fragmented memories of before. He struggles to mention the message the doctor left him before he woke, how he saw the world dissolve only after saying goodbye to his child self.
He talks nonstop about Harmony, about Sunday, Sparkle, Penacony, manages to recall some details that lead him to reflect, and when he thinks he’s finished, he exhales and smiles. The memories are faded photographs. If he strains his mind, he can see patches of watercolor, the trembling, radiant form.
Elias takes notes slowly, asking clarifying questions in between. Did you want your death? Yes. Did you try to kill yourself? Yes. What was the goal? Completing a mission, or freeing himself—only one choice possible, or maybe they’re the same. He says he wanted to stage his death as a theatrical gesture, a way of showing what he meant by sacrifice. But even before the coma, even before the mission with Veritas, the thought of dying was always a promise: standing on the balcony and wondering how much it hurts, dying—or is it like falling asleep, gathered up by an invisible veil and noticing nothing. Or does consciousness remain after death? Is death only an eternal lament?
Imagining what it’s like is the first step to it. Planning it, the second.
He remembers the day the idea first came to him, and the day he explained it to his partner, and how Veritas raised his voice in outrage. The next day, walking through Headquarters, he saw a little girl with a leopard-print hat and a slapped face, blonde, with strangely colored eyes, troops in black-and-red uniforms around her. And he thought: I wish I were dead. Surely others think so too. He doubts he’s special. He is—fortunate, rich beyond measure—but not in that thought. That thought is universal.
One part of his brain insists that even if he took the final step into the abyss, it wouldn’t matter. He’d be freed of a great burden, but which one wouldn’t he? The better alternative is to turn that nihilism into a weapon and hurl it back at the world. To say: See? Our banal existence shatters. Walking barefoot on shards of glass, every step agony, others watching but doing nothing. They’d rather let him suffer than confront the possibility of suicide.
Now he looks at Veritas. He realizes he’s spoken too long and apologizes, biting his lip.
“Apologize for what?” Elias asks.
“I don’t really want to die.” Maybe he says it because Veritas is there—to reassure him that what he just confessed is in the past. “It’s in the past.”
They touch on Sigonia for the next thirty minutes. How much he’d like to see his saintly sister. To walk on sand, slide down the dunes, face the cold of night in a lover’s arms.
Maybe get used to the idea that one day he’ll be a father and tell his children about her. Instead he prefers to spare an imaginary child the burden of carrying those same eyes—day after day—before a pack of men with pathological insecurity and a fetish for skin color. What a strange life he lives, condemned to hear the moans of fanatics who’ll get off the moment the next magazine shoot is out, imagining him on his knees sucking cock.
Aventurine shudders. A problematic man, that’s what he is. He focuses on how he must appear from the outside. The businessman, drowning in money, poison of the world—or lonely, desperate. The first, of course. Jade is working to preserve that image while he collects a paycheck for doing nothing. Spending mornings running, collapsing onto the couch, shopping on impulse.
The psychologist says something with excruciating slowness—it’s the second time he repeats it. Aventurine is starting to dissociate, projecting himself onto the sofa, fingers clenched around the faded fabric. In his porcelain-tiled living room, in his five-star penthouse.
“Doctor, forgive me,” says Veritas, his voice muffled in Aventurine’s ears. “I think that’s enough for today.”
One moment he’s sitting, the next he’s lying down, and somehow he’s looking at the top of Veritas’ head from above. The world snaps back to first-person, like a video game after a cutscene. A deep breath, and he feels his lungs polluted. It’s a bad feeling, but finally Veritas is there with him, and they’re alone.
“What a stupid idea,” Aventurine says, remorse thick in his throat, a mocking smile. “You had.”
“The doctor left before he noticed you were about to faint.”
His voice is absolutely calm, not a trace of accusation. He strokes Aventurine’s cheek with indifference, as though it were normal between them. The same indifference he wore the day after Aventurine explained the plan to him. Aventurine had gone to his office, apologizing for raising his voice. Softly, with a thin edge of agitation, Veritas laid down the idea, and to Aventurine, it felt like he was extending a hand toward the end. The sum of his mistakes: a serene death.
He keeps stroking him, absent-mindedly. The work of a Doctor of Chaos must be exhausting when you’re doing it for a friend.
I miss you so much, Aventurine admits, in his head. I wish we could go back to when we worked, when you kissed me. But what he says instead is: “I’m doing better.” He props himself up on his elbows and sits up, and Veritas stops touching him. Losing that contact is his own risk—and he regrets not taking more advantage of the moment.
“You know, I never complain about money, but I have to confess: this transaction makes no sense. You tell a person every reason you’re sick in the head, and the session ends with a transfer of two hundred credits.”
“They studied for this,” Veritas explains. “And they’re paid by the session. I’d agree with you if you weren’t part of the problem, as a capitalist.”
Aventurine arches a brow and laughs. “Corporation’s money, not mine.”
“Think it through. You live in a house that at times looks uninhabited. Before I came, the kitchen floor was untouched.”
“Because it’s new.”
“No water stains, no scratches, empty shelves.”
“I had a cleaning lady. Why would there be scratches?”
“Still doesn’t justify all that unused space. Do you really feel at home when you come back from work?”
“What is this,” Aventurine asks, weary, “an interrogation?”
“Your whole life is a transaction,” Veritas goes on, cynical. “This house, the money you pay the psychologist, the money you bet at the casino, the money you win. A Corporation that spoon-feeds you, compulsive shopping, a wristwatch I don’t recall you having before—identical to the one you already own. The last thing I want to hear you complain about is money.”
“You sound like some starving wretch,” Aventurine snaps, baring his teeth in a grimace. “You earn two-thirds of what I do and still gripe. I’ll decide what I do with my money. Aventurine, money doesn’t buy happiness! Spare me that story, please. You don’t know what I went through before I became this.”
“And do you like what you’ve become?”
Aventurine tilts his head. The answer is easy, but giving Veritas the satisfaction stops him cold. “Yes,” he lies, grabbing his phone, scrolling notifications just to escape the discussion. A message from his agent: the shoot will be mechanical-themed. The attached photo shows a model about his size wearing overalls, but the real problem is the denim jacket—doesn’t cover a thing. Veritas is still watching him. “Look at this,” Aventurine says, showing him the photo. “Didn’t even bother fastening the straps.”
“They’re still trying to sexualize you.” Veritas takes the phone, studies the image. “But if you’re fine with it…”
“Veritas,” he says, flat and clear. “I'm going through withdrawal from the coma. With all due respect, having sex with the photographer could cure me.”
A flash of indignation crosses the doctor’s eyes. Jealousy, Aventurine hopes. Veritas hands him back the phone and gets to his feet.
“Take care of yourself.”
*
Before they were even together, Veritas had given him a gift: Spade, a Catcake from the Herta Space Station. A month later the illness revealed itself—a respiratory condition—and the two of them tried to keep it alive with the right treatments, splitting the costs, until the creature finally died just as they themselves were breaking apart.
Aventurine found it strangely comical, almost as if fate had staged it. When he told Veritas, the man had come running, and they spent the night in Aventurine’s bed, making love one last time before Penacony. You break up, and then you fuck, Topaz had said. There aren't any stranger types than you two. And indeed, after the Stellar Glamour incident, Veritas had thrown a scene, and somehow they had still ended up back in bed together. Aventurine remembers it vividly.
They were in Veritas’ small but cozy bedroom, stepping on each other’s feet as they stumbled backwards, kissing, touching through their clothes and beneath them. The faint imprint of pajama fabric lingered on his skin—“a disgrace,” as Veritas would call it in his own idiom—but in the heat of passion he teased him for it, biting his ear, whispering cruel little provocations. Did you see how they all looked at you? And the way you arched your back when they told you to do it. Aventurine had tried in vain to shake his head, to flee the sting of those words that only aroused him further. To feel desired, claimed, owned entirely by Veritas—that was a wet dream, a fantasy cunningly achieved. He had succeeded; it had been his aim from the beginning. And on the soft bed, face buried in the pillows, chest pressed down, he had let himself be penetrated until he could take no more. The apologies afterwards were little more than a tacit pact to treat each other better—a pact they never kept.
They parted ways in the kitchen, by the refrigerator where they always ate breakfast. Even there, Veritas shoved him against the appliance and kissed him once more. Up the stairs, in his arms. Back into the bedroom, rutting like animals. We have to stop this. The shrewdest solution was to accept the mission together, as strategic partners, like in the past. And so here they were now—living together like some long-wed couple, with no room left for feelings.
The camera’s flash against him is like the blink of an eye. For an instant the world turns white. Aventurine rolls on the sofa where he reclines, glances now and then at the far wall of the studio, but sees no Veritas. Of course he isn’t coming, Aventurine tells himself; he must be busy. No use thinking about it.
The photographer is taller and broader than him—almost the doctor’s size—and whenever he hides his face behind the camera, a strange sensation stirs. The man looks good, in flared trousers, slim waist, shirt snug against his body. The attraction is cerebral, refined, worthy of Aventurine’s standards. Only the two of them remain, along with the electricians and the assistant who asks him to take off his denim jacket, exposing the overalls, the suspenders brushing against the piercings on his nipples.
The photographer dares to touch him, tugging one strap down, and Aventurine has to fight the sudden urge to shiver. He obeys, sits upright, legs slightly parted, eyes serious toward the camera, lips parted, tongue just showing, head tilted back against the sofa, one arm draped along it. “Beautiful,” the photographer says. “This one will be the cover.”
Later comes the interview, in his usual clothes, the photographer seated beside him. In the rush to arrive, shake hands, pose, and think, he has forgotten the man’s name—Dominik. Not bad. To the interviewer, a charming woman in her fifties who nods at everything, Dominik says he chose Aventurine for his style and not for his Stellar debut. It would be madness not to know one of the wealthiest, most talented Stonehearts—and most attractive, he adds, with a glance. Aventurine blushes. Compliments from strangers are rare. He quips that of course, it would be madness: the Corporation plasters their faces on every advertisement, sells their image.
“We’re merchandise,” he winks. “And I’m their favorite.”
The following questions circle around the techniques he employs to keep himself in shape. “I have a doctor who oversees those matters,” he clarifies, his gaze wandering once more, hoping to glimpse Veritas. “The Corporation cares about my health, and after what happened, after Penacony… let’s just say I fared rather poorly.”
A chorus of oh ripples through the studio; the women lift their hands to their mouths. Not pity—no—understanding. But if he were in chains, it would be pity. If he were in Veritas’ company, he would go straight to him and say: You were right.
“Our readers are eager to know whom you miss most from the Corporation, now that you are on hiatus,” the interviewer enunciates. The shadow of a smirk.
“Because we happen to have a name in mind.”
“I miss them all,” he answers evasively. Some questions are foolish, but he smiles and lets it pass. “The IPC is my family. As is the Intelligentsia. My regards go to Veritas, Topaz, and Jade.”
A unanimous chuckle makes it clear he has guessed the fateful name. Even before he utters the two colleagues’ names, the studio is already brimming with insufferable murmurs. The interviewer and her consultant exchange words inaudible to the ear. The recorder clicks off, polite applause spreads across the room. Electricians begin dismantling the lights, the LED spotlights on the ceiling flicker back on. Not a trace of the doctor, even in full light. Dominik rises at the same moment as he does, while Aventurine retrieves his phone, its screen flooded with apologies from Veritas. He pretends not to notice. Behind him, Dominik lays a hand upon his shoulder.
“You did well. I’d like to work with you again. Aventurine.”
The name strikes his ears with its forced neutrality, masking what is in truth the condescending tone so typical of clients he has long endured. If between them there were a briefcase filled with neatly stacked credits, Dominik would say the same thing, Aventurine reflects—perhaps with a trace more enthusiasm. He sweeps his overgrown blond hair to one side and smiles. Dominik urges him forward through the studio.
“I’m glad. Besides, you pay well.”
Dominik laughs, sincerely. He is a man who understands the bitter irony that governs workplace relations. This is the life of a contract worker; nothing to marvel at. He is used to it.
“May I buy you a drink?”
“Ah, finally, a connoisseur. I can perfectly well pay for myself. You’ve done me a favor, giving me a reason to step out of the house in the midst of all this.”
“I can imagine.”
They take their jackets, promising the staff they’ll return soon. Not far from the studio there’s a discreet bar; they step out into the radiant evening, walking shoulder to shoulder. One of those situations, Aventurine thinks: in a little while, he’ll make his move over beer and aperitifs. Though Dominik carries himself with elegance, betraying his lofty social station, he is as predictable as every other man Aventurine has known—but better than nothing.
Inside, tables are arranged along the great glass pane. Were the street outside crowded, even on a weekday, no one would deny the paparazzi entry, eager to hurl that tired question at him: Where have you been? Or to photograph him on the spot and draft some article about a supposed new flame. Look at him, they would write, first shirking work, then seen out with the photographer. Aventurine can already read the long paragraphs of falsehoods retailed to the public like merchandise in a shopping mall. Marketing tactics: stay in the spotlight, or collapse into self-pity and watch the readers’ reactions from afar.
“I wanted to tell you,” Dominik says once they are seated, “it is rare to find someone of your caliber. You are told what to do and you obey without complaint. I’ve dealt with models too proud to submit to the rules of my art. I must thank you for your patience—and your few impertinent questions.”
“When I take on a job there is no use probing the source. Never would I dream of interfering with the author’s design. Surely, there is a reason why things are meant to be as they are.”
“Precisely. Then you understand my unease.”
“I am told I am empathetic.”
“I believe it. And do you enjoy being a model?”
“I’m growing accustomed to it. The spotlights are not the problem. Perhaps fulfilling a request is not as simple for me as you imagine. Even now it takes monumental effort to accept an order.”
“For the matter of the brand, I suppose?”
“My brand is an old story, long ago buried. Or rather, sealed beneath a gem. Yet yes, the trauma is vivid. An ugly memory without remedy.”
“These things take time. Each of us bears a wound; you are hardly alone.”
Aventurine remains silent at this banal reply. The sort of thing one always says: everyone has problems, you are not special.
“What do you know of me, Dominik? Choosing one of the Stonehearts—famed for being troublesome and overburdened—for ‘the style’ is, to say the least, banal. What was it that drew you in?”
“To be honest: I heard the latest rumors that keep you secluded. A pair of jeans, after all, is a domestic attire, casual, chosen for comfort. I believed that beneath the jewels lay a simple spirit, one who delights in small things. A matter of appearances. Forgive my trespass into affairs not mine, but everyone has read of your brief history with Doctor Veritas Ratio. He calls himself worldly, yet he is anything but. Listen to his lectures, as surely you once have, or to his refined diction. You do not strike me as the same.”
Aventurine stammers a reply but is interrupted by the waiter bringing menus. Dominik orders for them both: two glasses of a wine Aventurine has never heard of. Aventurine has no chance to order food to brace for the alcohol.
“I see,” he says simply. There is no point in taking offense. It is not the truth, and Dominik will never set foot in his apartment to retract it. Aventurine is one of the few who know the doctor deeply; from him Aventurine learned a rule of life: truth floats on the surface, plain to see, yet people choose not to look. Pretending it is not there is easier.
“Opinions,” Aventurine adds. “I understand what you mean. Appearances are undeniable, sometimes.”
“Do you care to disagree?”
“I spoke in psychological terms, let us say. The doctor is silent, reserved. Once known, he alters one’s opinion. There must be a reason Screwllum took a liking to him.”
Dominik smiles. “My mistake. A hasty opinion.”
“It doesn’t matter. Speaking of one not present makes me uneasy. It has long been over between us. I don’t know why the voyeurs hunger to know more.”
“You were a rather public couple to the paparazzi.”
“I behaved differently nine months ago. The spotlights no longer thrill me either.” Beneath the table, Aventurine taps his foot, nervous. “It wasn’t strictly monogamous. The paparazzi know that too.”
“Forgive me. We can change the subject.”
“Fine,” he replies at once. “But I won’t stay long.”
His phone vibrates in his pocket; Aventurine seizes it. Another message from Veritas: Where did you disappear to? He answers: At a bar with the photographer. Come rescue me. Still time to make amends. Veritas replies: Send the location. He does, with three percent battery left.
The waiter brings their glasses. Dominik stretches across the table, clasping Aventurine’s cold hands in his warm ones. He startles at the touch.
“Aventurine, I see much restraint in you. You make a fine model, even consenting to bare yourself before the lens. Yet now you do not flinch. There is something you have wanted since this shoot began—and I am willing to give it.”
Aventurine frees one hand only to drain the glass in a single swallow. The wine burns his throat, brings tears to his eyes. He stares at Dominik.
“Well. You may as well give me the goodnight kiss, while you’re at it. Careful, though. That would make plenty of people jealous.”
He rises abruptly, leaving Dominik at the table, and walks out. The alcohol’s heat overtakes him at once. He pauses in the cold, fearing otherwise he will lose himself in the blur. His phone is dead; in his pocket, only cigarettes and a lighter remain. He is about to light one when he finds himself drawn into a narrow alley behind the bar, pressed against the wall, a pair of fleshy lips on his own.
Dominik is relentless, and Aventurine lets him. At first he resists, if only to make clear he is not easily possessed, but soon yields—for he knows well enough that he is. In such moments, as in the clubs four years earlier, he is a rag doll. His “no” is never acid, never sharp; it excites fragile egos, whispered like a seduction, hinting at something more thrilling: They might see us.
Dominik kisses well, to Aventurine’s surprise. His tongue is not invasive, but almost petitions for entry into the moist cavern of his mouth. He refrains from that tired display of virility—wrists pinned overhead—that Aventurine would tolerate only from Veritas.
He is not aroused. The autumn chill does not help, nor does his disinterest in the photographer. Yet the wine begins to take hold; he loops his arms about Dominik’s neck, allows hands to roam across his chest, even moans at the pinch of his left nipple beneath the sweater, to spur his partner on.
His aim is to end it swiftly: if he feigns enough desire, Dominik will release him; and besides, he is already bored. Both roads lead to the same goal. He unbuttons his jeans, does the same for Dominik, grips their erections—his own half-limp—and closes his eyes, imagining Veritas instead, that the open, submissive mouth before him is his.
His hand works fast and tight; they climax together with muffled groans that resemble sighs. Aventurine dresses, wipes his semen-stained hand on the photographer’s collar, and departs, though he thanks him first.
“You already have my number.”
Back from the alley, he retrieves his things from the studio. Veritas’ car is parked on the stripes, hazard lights blinking; the doctor leans against it, cigarette between his lips, phone to his ear. As Aventurine approaches he hears the metallic voice of voicemail. He had been calling him. Aventurine waves his dead phone by way of greeting. Veritas rolls his eyes.
“How did it go?”
“Fine. The photographer was half a maniac.” He laughs; Veritas watches him, uncertain whether to take it as jest or confession. “But now I want to go home. I feel dirty.”
Notes:
If you made it 'till there, thanks a lot!! This fic is definitely not a walk in the park to read or to write. Especially to write, believe me. This work has one year. I started writing it August last year, and never ended it. Now it's sitting at 20k words and its updates will be slow: every time I get into it, really into it, I become depressed like Aventurine in this fic lol.
May I introduce you to If you'd Dare to Gaze into the Abyss series! It's a series of fics inspired by philosophic themes such as Absurdism, Nihilism and Religious symbolism with themes related to depression and sex talk. Yes, these are all related, I promise.
Yes, I know: technically speaking, Aventurine is not a Self-Annihilator. But I kept thinking about a theory revolving around the possibility of Ratio being a Doctor of Chaos - and Aventurine gets a Doctor of Chaos if you get him in the game through the messages he sends after the Penacony mission. I wondered... why not making Ratio is Doctor of Chaos? Of course I coulnd't wait to write something like that, but it also made me reflect on lots of depressing stuff that hunt me as well. Aventurine, forgive me to trauma dump on you as always.
As always, forgive the errors. This is not beta read and the Author's first language isn't English. Leave kudos and comments for part II!! this will be 12 chapters for each month of the year!! And I promise it gets better for the both of them!! Enjoy <3
Chapter 2: October
Summary:
Heat thickens between them despite the draft. Another thunderclap startles Aventurine into a jump. Then, laughing, he bolts outside onto the terrace, letting the rain drench him. His eyes light with childlike joy, his smile wide and mischievous as he turns to Veritas. “Come on, Doctor. Let’s dance here!”
“Don’t even think about it.”
“Come on!” He waves him over. Rarely is he this happy. Over rain, of all things. What a disaster. What if he catches a cold? Doesn’t matter: “You have to feel it!”
Veritas lingers in the doorway until Aventurine pulls him out, willing or not, and they continue their dance beneath the downpour—an overwhelming sensory explosion. Rain gathers on his skin, runs down his chest, brushes his nipples, and a soft moan escapes Aventurine’s lips, his eyes locked to Veritas’.
“For Nous’ sake,” Veritas mutters again and again, irritated. But beneath the sharp tone lies a smile, faint but undeniable, betraying his intent. “If I catch a cold—if we catch a cold, gambler—I swear I’ll leave this house. We’re done.”
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
In the past, back when he still lived in his old apartment, Aventurine used to think that October marked the arrival of a new beginning, the perfect time to fall in love. It was in that very month that Veritas had courted him, leaving a bouquet of flowers and a bottle of champagne on his office desk, along with a note of congratulations for his promotion to P42. A bunch of golden sunflowers, the color of his hair, he had explained.
With a quick search, he had looked up how to preserve flowers once they wither. The process was simple: change the water and trim the stems every two days; once they began to dry, spray them with hairspray, hang them upside down with no water, and, at the last stage, admire them in the empty champagne bottle on the balcony. Easy enough. But perhaps leaving them outside had been a mistake. In fact, after just a week, he was woken by the sound of shattering glass, and the dried flowers had been carried away by the wind. A poor choice. One call with Veritas, lasting barely an hour, was enough to sort it out. No problem. Flowers are meant to be given, and then they die. That’s the circle of life.
But then, what was the point of giving them at all? Aventurine had felt pathetic. It was the first time someone had ever done something so kind for him, especially given that his relationship with Veritas had begun with the sadistic game of Russian roulette. He might be a nihilist, but fate—the Aeons, or whoever else—follows a precise law. Everything happens according to the rule that governs a life.
The gun? A raw metaphor, always balanced between life and death. The flowers in the champagne bottle? A reminder that any relationship, no matter how it twists and turns, always ends in a break.
October begins quietly, with homemade hot chocolates and lighters used to warm hands against the cold. Warmth is a forgotten concept, felt only through wool blankets. Wool, because Aventurine can barely endure the premature chill of autumn, let alone winter.
The first two weeks pass normally. Aventurine continues attending fashion events and interviews, feeding off gossip and speculation about his supposed illness. Veritas judges him silently. Aventurine knows that he would like to speak out against the crude way he keeps profiting, and one morning he tells him he’s actually doing the Corporation a favor: if anyone profits implicitly from his image, it’s still the IPC.
“But Veritas,” he reminds him, “I kill time by working.”
Work ennobles man, or so the saying goes. Whether he ever felt ennobled by the Corporation, he doesn’t know—but he can’t spend his mornings buying and reselling watches at forty thousand credits apiece, or waiting to withdraw money from bitcoins and his website, which, incidentally, had gained fifty percent more visits after his latest photo shoot.
One morning, a message arrives from Dominik: a shared folder with the photographs, and the preview of the magazine cover. Glam! the title reads. About Aventurine, the subtitle says beside his image: Aventurine gazing seductively into the camera, head slightly tilted, the peacock-feather pendant brushing his collarbone. Lower down, the viewer’s eye is drawn to the faintly defined pectorals, the left suspender barely covering the piercing on his nipple.
That morning, Veritas appears behind him, peering at the image displayed on Aventurine’s laptop with a cup of coffee in hand. Veritas drinks a lot of coffee during the day. For a moment he says nothing, lighting a cigarette in silence. Aventurine knows he is thinking. “You look good,” Veritas finally says. “The photographer understood how to highlight you.”
“I would’ve expected a snarkier comment.”
“And why?”
“I’m practically half-naked, and you don’t say a word.”
“At least it’s honest,” Veritas replies. “Think of pajamas. The see-through, the suggestion—that was pure pornography, it set the imagination walking. These photos leave no doubt. You’re a beautiful face, and they know it.”
On the news, Aventurine appears even before foreign policy reports. Beyond the usual appeals from the United Planets Organization—UPO, born in response to IPC policies, to which Sigonia would have adhered had it been founded earlier—demanding a ceasefire against the Corporation’s new colonizing ventures, the news of his magazine cover dominates the headlines.
At dinner, Veritas launches into speeches, insisting they’re using his image to distract public opinion from the real issues. Aventurine only shrugs. It happens to everyone.
How can you accept all this, Veritas asks him, when you yourself have suffered the same? I don’t know, Aventurine answers. I just think that, at a certain age, you stop fighting. The Corporation has weapons—plenty of them. Who am I to stop them? For one, you’re a billionaire, Veritas reminds him bluntly. Aventurine, unfazed, has the reply ready: My money belongs to the IPC.
On the couch, late at night, accompanied by the classical music Veritas loves. Aventurine is reading a secondhand novel, its margins filled with the doctor’s notes, scribbled slips of paper, and post-its tucked between the pages. At the end of the book, a series of blank sheets and sketches.
He looks up: Veritas is seated in an armchair, legs comfortably crossed on a footrest, an old university manual in hand that he is reviewing for tomorrow’s lecture. His glasses dangle from his nose, his eyes drifting shut now and then. Aventurine shifts restlessly on the couch.
He runs a hand over his face, sighing, and sits back on the couch, flipping through a sketchbook Veritas had left lying around. Blank pages, the faint smell of paper and graphite.
“You should draw me,” he says, almost lazily, turning toward the doctor. “You can do so many things: sculpt, draw… you’re terribly intelligent. And these?” He flips the empty pages toward him, as if to make his point.
Veritas takes off his glasses and squints. “I only know the basics of drawing for sculpting’s sake. Don’t imagine I’m particularly good.”
“You seem like the kind of student who would scribble all over the desk during math lessons.”
“Never did.” Veritas blinks. Aventurine is on the verge of bursting into laughter. “Don’t put words in my mouth. Still, I could give it a try. Give me a blank sheet and a pencil.”
Standing, Aventurine grabs his phone. Two new messages from Dominik. He switches the device off, tosses it onto the couch, and pulls a sketchbook from the bookshelf, the very same Veritas had abandoned to gather dust. The doctor frowns in surprise, as if he doesn’t remember leaving it there at all. All he needs is a pencil. Aventurine lies back down, stretched out on his side, striking the classic pose of a muse.
“Should I undress for you?” he asks, his voice sweet and teasing.
Veritas doesn’t answer. He sits cross-legged on the floor, laying the sheet on the coffee table, propping it against a manual for friction. His pencil moves with meticulous care. He takes measurements, shifting his thumb along the shaft of the graphite, and inevitably their eyes meet, again and again. “You can sit however you like. Be comfortable.”
Aventurine shifts onto his stomach, resting his head on a pillow, one leg bent slightly outward. “Like this?”
“However you please.”
“Do you mind if I talk while you draw?”
Veritas nods, “Go ahead.”
“You know what we should do? Like old times. Throw a party, cause some mischief.”
“It was hardly routine to throw a party,” Veritas replies, blurring shadows with his thumb, pencil shading the page. “You could wait for the Met Gala.”
“I want to have fun,” Aventurine insists. “Why won’t you let me go back to the casino?”
“Gambler,” Veritas sighs, with that calm that carries the weight of a verdict already delivered. “We’ve spoken about this before. And it seems someone’s intent on making your phone explode with all those notifications.”
“Oh, well, let it ring.” Aventurine’s pout is almost childlike. Then, weary of waiting, he suddenly leans forward and snatches the sheet from Veritas’ hands. “Enough, come on, let me see.”
The drawing is little more than a sketch: the body only suggested, hesitant lines tracing slender thighs, a face barely outlined. And yet, something lingers within it—a hidden quality, a shadow of truth that makes the imperfect strokes more honest than any finished portrait. Aventurine is caught off guard, and the surprise shows clearly on his face. Veritas, instead, watches him with steady eyes, his head tilted to the side, as though waiting for the slightest sign, the judgment worth more than any words he could utter.
“Well?” Veritas lifts his chin just a fraction, and in his voice lies a trace of hesitation that so rarely belongs to him.
From that angle, Aventurine studies him, unable to ignore how vulnerable the doctor appears: his eyes, wider and clearer than usual, fixed on him with an attention that feels like a silent invocation. For a moment, the air between them grows more intimate.
“Finish it when you have the time,” he says at last, handing back the paper and picking up his phone again. His fingers move quickly over the glowing keyboard. Would you like to go out to the casino? My treat, he types, ignoring the previous messages. Dominik replies: Next week, if I’m free.
“Who’s writing to you?”
Aventurine turns and shrugs. “The photographer.”
“The half-maniac?” The question is sharp, surgical.
“Yes. At least he’s a handsome man.”
Veritas’ gaze is unreadable. “Have you found yourself a new flame?”
“What, are you jealous? It’s fine. We talk, but it ends there. It’s not like I’ve fucked him.”
Veritas raises both hands in a gesture of surrender, as if to say Halt, and the conversation dies on the spot. His expression seems untouched, yet his movements betray something else: he rises with almost military precision, places a hand on the table for support, and immediately brushes down his trousers, as if the fabric had suddenly become sullied.
Aventurine follows him with his eyes, bewitched by every detail: the line of his shoulders, the discipline in his movements, even that automatic, pointless little gesture of dusting off his legs. “Listen, I need to tell you something…”
As he speaks, a window upstairs slams shut. Aventurine startles, and so does Veritas. The latter grimaces and rushes up the stairs, muttering something under his breath. Aventurine stays behind, dumbstruck, as though he had missed the starting shot of an imaginary race.
Slowly—calling into the air with a broken, incredulous voice, Veritas? What’s happening?—he climbs one, two steps, his hand hesitant on the banister. One after another, loud thuds echo from the guest room, and Aventurine edges toward the door. Barely in time, he jerks back to avoid being struck full in the face by a glass that whizzes past him, shattering against the wall with a sharp crack, shards flying at him.
“Hey! What the—”
He doesn’t get to finish before a slick, furry creature hurls itself at him, in a dive Aventurine swears he sees in slow motion. The impact knocks him flat on his back, legs in the air, and immediately he thrashes, his vision breaking into flashes of light, almost entirely eclipsed by the feline hissing and yowling on top of him.
Yet the sound isn’t quite that of a cat. That creature, claws hooked into his face, Aventurine would recognize anywhere. Spade: his catcake kitten, dead for nearly a year.
Veritas separates them, kneeling before him. Now the creature that looks like Spade is in the doctor’s lap. Alert, its wide eyes flick from one to the other, brimming with an intelligence far too sharp to be mere instinct, pausing only when it notices the scratches marking Aventurine’s face. Catcakes are keenly attuned to others’ pain, and now it flicks its tail as though in apology.
Aventurine shifts his gaze toward Veritas’ room, its door left wide open. Through the blinds, rattling in the wind, filters a faint light, just enough to reveal the scene. He ignores the chaos Spade has caused—toppled books, crumpled papers, shattered glass—and notices instead the desk, upon which sits a cage, now open, surrounded by food bowls and dishes of water.
Aventurine sighs, tense, with the air of someone who has arrived late to a performance. “Will you explain to me what’s going on? Why is Spade alive?”
“It’s not Spade,” Veritas says calmly, cradling the creature to his chest in a gesture almost paternal. The catcake purrs, its tail curling around his arm like a living bracelet. Yet its gaze never leaves Aventurine, magnetic, insistent. Reflexively, Aventurine reaches out a hesitant hand and strokes it. What is not Spade accepts the caress, and after a moment leaps into his arms again, burrowing for warmth and touch. Aventurine shifts upright, letting it curl against his chest, while Veritas repeats, “It’s the same breed as Spade, but not Spade. They only resemble each other. Spade had heterochromia, remember?”
“Of course I remember.” The creature in his arms has eyes of a piercing, electric blue. “Alright. You stole another catcake from Ruan Mei’s lab on the Herta Space Station. I won’t tell anyone. As long as I can keep it.”
He’s clearly joking. Veritas, by contrast, has never been so serious. “You can keep it. I borrowed it for you.”
“Borrowed,” Aventurine echoes mechanically. “For me? What are you talking about?”
“It’s a therapy cat. If you don’t want it, I’ll return it. But in theory, they help with mood swings. For instance, when they purr, they release a natural fragrance from their fur. The Doctors of Chaos often use them with their patients.”
“Because I’m depressed?”
“No. Not because you’re depressed. Here… give it a name.”
The creature climbs up to his neck now, licking his chin. Aventurine keeps petting it, and its fur draws in his hand as though made of soft skeins of wool. It emits a strange guttural sound, its whole body trembling with the effort, and it’s then Aventurine realizes he feels less tense. The scent is pleasant, warm with cinnamon. He knows scents—perfumes are one of his passions—and the fact that a catcake can emit such a rich, therapeutic aroma reassures him. But it’s not Spade’s smell. Spade had smelled of bergamot and geranium.
“Club. That will be its name.”
Veritas looks at him as though he had just said the most ridiculous thing in the world. His brows arch in an almost comic expression, but at last he only sighs. “Truly, you have no imagination.”
“He’ll be Spade’s heir,” Aventurine counters, holding the little beast that has already curled in his lap. “Is it male or female?”
“Hard to say, with catcakes. I don’t think they have a sex.”
“Is that even possible?”
Veritas smiles faintly, without irony. “They come from Ruan Mei’s laboratory,” he reminds him. “She makes anything possible.”
And so, by the end of the week, Club has become part of the family. She moves through the house as though she has always lived there, claiming spaces and affection with the natural grace of one who knows she belongs. Veritas, for his part, has already thrown himself into study: he hasn’t just asked Ruan Mei for a few details but spent hours combing through articles, manuals, internal reports. He’s read everything—sleep cycles, diet, veterinary care—everything the Herta Space Station had to offer.
Among those documents, one in particular struck him. It stated that, before achieving a viable specimen, Ruan Mei had created over one hundred and fifty failed attempts. The thought unsettled Aventurine deeply. One hundred and fifty.
What must they have felt? For Ruan Mei, they had probably been nothing more than scientific trials. Nothing else. Yet it seems she once sold them, though she has since stopped. Perhaps—the thought nags at him—the catcakes in her videos are simply the ones she chose to keep for herself, small relics of a project she never truly abandoned.
By Friday, Aventurine is stretched out on the bed with a book Veritas has lent him. That morning he had seen the psychologist, clutching Club to his chest the entire time. Talking had been easier, and for once, he hadn’t fainted from anxiety.
Now that his sessions with Elias are becoming more frequent, Aventurine realizes how much easier speaking has become. If he dislikes a cleaning shift, if he sees injustice on television, he usually says so. He still keeps silent, of course, on news concerning the Eastern planets. That still wounds him too deeply, and more than feeling privileged to speak of it, he feels bound to remain quiet.
A quick glance around the house reminds him why. He lives in luxury. No one will take it from him. Meanwhile, those women on television—torn apart, their faces bloodied—the Corporation will deport their children.
One night he stays awake watching TV, the volume turned low, Club curled on his lap. Beauty and profit. Money, a gamble at the casino, luck. His life is made of five words now: once, it was made of only one. Slavery. He switches off the television and falls asleep on the couch, dreaming of the face of the little girl he had seen months ago at Headquarters, but even then, he sleeps no more than three hours.
When they speak of his dreams, Veritas says he is at the first stage of becoming a Self-Annihilator. He usually dreams of his sister, and then the black hole. Sometimes Acheron is there, sometimes he is alone. It is better to intervene than to treat, the doctor says. He has heard stories of others like him, found in videos on his phone: some see their skin turn into something like rotting wood, riddled with holes and scars.
Some have their endocrine system so disrupted that they can no longer tell pleasure from pain, becoming numb to everything. Some lose their memories, others their senses… It is as if some entity had stripped them of the very meaning of their lives, leaving them to watch, in dreams and illusions, their own forms dissolve into a black hole at the edge of the horizon.
When he wakes, it is four in the morning. There is Xanax on the table; he swallows one tablet. He leaves Club asleep on the couch, covered with a blanket—though technically the creature has no need of it—and hears the soft purrs vibrating against the linen.
Aventurine rolls himself a cigarette. From upstairs, he hears Veritas’ heavy breathing—the man had returned home late the night before and had gone straight to bed, muttering an apology for his fatigue. Divergent Universe? Aventurine had asked, and Veritas had grumbled back: Stupid graduating students.
As he recalls this, Aventurine opens the refrigerator and finds only a bottle of red wine, uncorked two days ago. He reaches blindly for a clean glass from the shelf.
The apartment isn’t quite dark: the blinking of the security cameras washes the walls with intermittent red light, just enough to sketch out the kitchen’s shapes. Insomnia weighs on him, dragging him down, but the other day he noticed the sleeping pills had disappeared. Or rather, he had emptied the jar. If there had been another in the shared bathroom, Veritas must have hidden it.
Of course, he thinks bitterly, he can sleep soundly while I down red wine hoping it will knock me out. Xanax and wine. Inspired combination. Tomorrow—today—he has an interview, the second for the new issue of Stellar Glamor, with Dominik. They had spent the entire afternoon messaging yesterday. Aventurine wishes it were Veritas, but he needs to get laid, so he humored him.
Aventurine: Hey. Am I bothering you?
Aventurine: Maybe you were right about Doctor Ratio. I’ve been thinking about him for two weeks.
Aventurine: I want you. Can we meet after the interview?
Two hours later the guilt had set in. Dominik replied with a thumbs-up emoji, followed by a kiss-with-a-heart. The more Aventurine thought about it, the more the guilt festered. He drank another sip. Then another. He stretched out again on the couch and tried to fall back asleep.
The next time he wakes, it is seven, and upstairs he hears Veritas’ alarm. Silently, Aventurine counts in his head the seconds it takes for him to leave the bathroom and descend the stairs. When he does, Aventurine closes his eyes again, feigning sleep.
Veritas crosses the room, his footsteps gradually slowing, until they stop altogether beside the couch. Aventurine does not open his eyes, but he feels his presence, perceives the steady rhythm of his breathing close by. With a careful, almost paternal gesture, the doctor tucks the blanket more snugly around him; then he gently lifts Club and sets him on the floor, freeing the space at Aventurine’s side.
Yet he does not step away immediately. He lingers. Aventurine notices by the delicate contact—the doctor’s hand still resting on the blanket, so near his body. Slowly, that hand drifts upward, brushes his cheek, the thumb tracing along his lower lip, lingering in a caress both intimate and forbidden.
It would be an unbearably humiliating moment for the doctor if Aventurine were to choose just then to wake: he could catch his eye with a complicit look, or worse, draw that thumb into his mouth, licking it without breaking the gaze. But nothing happens. Aventurine remains still, his breathing steady in the pretense of sleep.
Only then does Veritas pull away. He dissolves the contact gently, rises without a sound, and as though nothing had happened, heads toward the kitchen. Aventurine hears the refrigerator door open.
An hour later, he falls asleep in earnest. When he wakes, Veritas has already left. On his phone, a message awaits him: a photo of himself curled up asleep in the blankets. Good morning. Aren’t peacocks supposed to be morning creatures? Take a bath.
Beside it, a bathtub emoji and a peacock. A crude parody of the images the paparazzi once used to sign off the articles written about them.
*
The interview lasts an hour. Paradoxically, the make-up artists take even longer to disguise the shadows beneath his eyes: after repeated attempts, the final solution is a pair of teardrop glasses with pale pink lenses, diverting attention from his exhausted face.
His agent scolds him—he should have slept, rested—but instead he shows up pale and staggering. Wine had been his breakfast. In the studio, alcohol is forbidden, and they force him to swallow generous portions of food. Aventurine chews with disgust: set food, greasy and bland, closer to garbage than a real meal. He nearly vomits, but reminds himself that this will be broadcast on the evening news. He must at least look presentable.
“Tell the journalists to do without video. Just put my voice in voice-over on old clips,” he mutters to his agent, while the make-up artist pats powder under his eyes for the umpteenth time, as though a thin veil of dust could erase an entire sleepless night.
At last, he is left alone in the dressing room, staring into the mirror. There, under the pitiless glare of the vanity lights, the reflection stares back: a face hidden behind rose-tinted glasses, an image he barely recognizes anymore. At the bar, he manages to order a shot of whisky from a waitress who doesn’t know him. Dominik comes looking for him, and later, as expected, they end up at the casino.
Veritas messages him in the car, on the way there.
Dr. Ratio: I’ll be home by seven, I’m at the university now.
Dr. Ratio: More graduates asking me for theses.
Dr. Ratio: How did the interview go?
Aventurine: Terribly. I think I’m half drunk.
Dr. Ratio: What’s that supposed to mean?
Aventurine doesn’t reply, letting the conversation die, at least on his end. The phone continues to buzz insistently as the car carries them to their destination. He snatches it up, sighs, and switches it off with a sharp gesture, as if silencing a nagging voice. Now there is only Dominik.
At the entrance to the casino, the air is thick with sweetish smoke and overpowering perfumes. They show their IDs. The bouncer recognizes him and arches an eyebrow, surprised to see him there again. Aventurine answers with a crooked grin, too wide to belong to a sober man.
At the bar, two more shots of whisky. The first burns down his throat, the second warms his stomach and loosens his tongue. Then, the roulette. The wheel spins, hypnotic, its steady clicking hammering in his ears. Aventurine leans forward, laughs too loudly at a joke no one told, and lets the chips fall across the green felt. Amid the din of voices and the rush of sound, Aventurine registers only Dominik’s lips on his.
*
Aventurine had met Veritas Ratio under circumstances nothing short of unusual. Not that the marble pavilion of a wealthy landowner, in the middle of a mission in an unknown country, was the strangest tale he could tell—his life was full of strangeness. What struck him was the whole picture: the nature of the mission, the deception that followed, and above all, that peculiar doctor, so unlike the rest.
Until then, Aventurine had thought of IPC operatives as chess pieces to be moved across a board, and he had carried out missions alongside Intelligentsia members who had not so much as spoken a word to him. But this time was different: he was with Topaz, for the second time in a month, and their objective was to seize a valuable medallion, to be sold at auction later that evening.
They had arrived in the afternoon, dressed simply, the rosette of the Strategic Department stitched on their chests. Opal, who had assigned them the mission, had said little. Perhaps the medallion was a Curio, perhaps not. He had offered no explanation: he had merely handed the task to Aventurine with his usual coldness, without indulgence or ceremony.
That day remains in Aventurine’s memory above all others; never had he felt so alive. It had begun like any other evening, like a night at the casino: ordering drinks, mingling among the guests at the auction. At that time, he had not yet amassed great wealth.
He lived comfortably enough, but the Corporation kept him endlessly busy with new assignments, leaving him little space to breathe. Jade had once told him that if he wanted to rise in the world, he had to start talking to the sort of people one meets at parties—watching carefully how they dressed, how they held a glass of wine.
So he had taken one from a waiter’s tray and drifted into the conversations of strangers who spoke of money. Thanks to Topaz, he had met debt collectors, millionaires with pockets spilling over, and smugglers. Hard to believe, but before that night, Aventurine had never smoked a cigarette.
Nor had he ever tasted whisky. The sensation was venomous in his throat, a burning so fierce it threatened to bring tears to his eyes. And yet he clung to those waiter’s trays as if they carried the world’s hidden secrets—until finally, Topaz had pulled him back to reality.
“Do you know who that is?” she asked, pointing to a man whose violet hair was swept to one side, showing off a gleaming laurel hairpin. He had taken his time to admire him, then gone for a glass of water at the dispenser. He shook his head. Almost imperceptibly, he ran his tongue over his teeth. “Veritas Ratio, Intelligentsia,” Topaz concluded.
Around the man’s body was not only the strap of a real leather belt, but also a black waistcoat with golden embroidery, worn over an aquamarine shirt—naturally adorned with glittering accessories, silver chains, and triangular motifs. The look suited Aventurine perfectly.
“Topaz. Introduce me.”
“What?” the girl exclaimed, startled. “I don’t know him.”
“Then pretend,” Aventurine insisted, seizing her arm. He pulled her toward the mysterious member of the Guild. Despite his previous, lackluster encounters with other members, he was certain—by some strange instinct—that he and Veritas would get along. “Just say: Veritas Ratio, let me introduce you to the best person you’ll meet tonight.”
“Oh, he’ll fall for that for su—Doctor, it’s such a pleasure to meet you.” Topaz had straightened herself at once. What had truly drawn Veritas’ attention in that moment, however, was the way Aventurine’s hand had tugged so firmly around her arm. Then she extended her own hand to him. “We’re colleagues. IPC, Strategic Department. I’m Topaz, P40, and this is…”
“Aventurine,” he had cut in swiftly. “A pleasure indeed.”
Veritas had studied him for long moments, letting silence speak in his stead. He had not seemed confused, but neither pleased. His eyes had drifted between the two extended hands before clasping Topaz’s first.
“The pleasure is mine. You are here for the auction as well?”
“Oh, the medallion is—” Topaz began, but Aventurine was quicker.
“No, we’re more here to mingle. Jade—our employer, so to speak—offered us a splendid evening. And who could refuse? So many fine faces here tonight.”
“You are Stonehearts, aren’t you?”
“Yes. Yes, we are.” Topaz cleared her throat, narrowly avoiding stepping on Aventurine’s foot.
“Then you” Veritas looked Aventurine squarely in the eyes “must be the Avgin boy who once deceived the Marketing Development Department into believing that the barren lands of Sigonia concealed untapped sources of energy. A vast sum was invested in excavations before it became clear it was all a fraud.”
Aventurine had only smiled. Topaz beside him had gone pale. “Indeed.”
“And then there was the infamous Egyhazo Affair. You managed to mislead the Guild into thinking that the remains of Tayzzyronth, the Insectorum Imperator, were buried there. Despite the scholars’ utmost caution, they fell into your trap nonetheless.”
“That is also correct.”
“And let us not forget the letters from the Sigonian Sovereignty’s councilors: they accused your tribe of breaking pivotal accords in the past and of sowing discord, thereby significantly delaying the treaties between Sigonia and the IPC.”
Despite Topaz’s rising panic, Aventurine’s expression had never changed. “So popular, am I?”
“So it seems. Topaz, was it? As for you…”
“I’ll go to the restroom.” Rising slightly on her toes, Topaz had whispered into Aventurine’s ear: “Distract him for a while. I don’t like the way he’s judging us.”
“And what will you do?”
“I’ll head to the auction myself. Just… keep him busy, if you can.”
She vanished into the crowd. Aventurine, with a gesture far too intimate, slid a hand behind Veritas’ back, guiding him deeper into the pavilion. “Shall we continue our conversation while dear Topaz regains her composure?”
Veritas had allowed himself to be led, though his gaze trailed after her. “And what exactly do you wish to talk about?”
“Surely a man like you has a trove of juicy revelations. You seem to know everything about me, yet I know nothing of you. Doctor.”
“Everyone knows the story of Sigonia. How can you blame me? You are the last Avgin alive.”
“That much is true. But how is it I’ve never heard your name?”
“You must be careless. There are treatises written on me, documentaries have been produced.”
They arrived in a wide garden where the air was cooler, rich with pollen and the scent of grass still damp from irrigation. The distant cry of a nocturnal bird cradled them as they walked. Beneath a Doric colonnade they stopped, watching the sunset deepen: from golden rose to crimson, then into a burning orange that reflected upon the marble as if it glowed with live embers.
“I never went to school, there are many things I don’t know,” Aventurine confessed. Veritas’ eyelids had widened slightly. “What? Surprised I’m not cultured?”
“Your appearance deceives entirely.”
“At first glance I look utterly desirable. Through and through. So, enlighten me, Doctor. Who are you?” Veritas recited a litany of titles that meant little to Aventurine. A doctor, a professor, eight doctorates—congratulations on writing so many books. To him, these were empty labels. “Would you care for a drink? You deserve a fine glass of wine after your feats.”
“Perhaps you should tell me whether you’re mocking me, Aventurine.”
He had smiled again, amused by the doctor’s confusion. Fear was not his aim, never his intention. Rather, as Topaz had urged, he sought to distract him—but in his own way, by his own rules. And for Aventurine, distraction could mean many things. “Ah, but I am listening to you—isn’t that enough?” he replied, eyes flashing. “So many titles. Which one truly matters to you?”
“I suppose, if I had to choose, I prefer to be called Doctor. It encompasses who I am. A humble scholar.”
“Humble.” Aventurine clicked his tongue in mock disapproval. “And what of the anti-planetary weapon for the IPC?”
Veritas’ gaze hardened, his pupils narrowing to sharp slits. “What is it you wish to know?”
“For instance, why you built it. If you are as cultured as you claim, you’ll have an answer worthy of my time.”
“I see what you’re trying to do. Like all your kind, you pretend to know nothing, and yet here you are, casting judgment on my failures.”
“Did you not do the same with me?” Aventurine had shot back swiftly.
“Before that instrument existed, the word ‘anti-planetary’ had never touched it. I was commissioned under another name, another purpose. Even now, it does not bear my signature,” Veritas said. They had stopped by a column. Aventurine leaned against it, his face neutral as ever. The doctor continued: “I should return to my colleagues, if you don’t mind.”
“Doctor,” Aventurine called after him, but Veritas did not stop. Only by seizing his arm and pulling him close did Aventurine manage to hold his attention. “We have something in common. We are both liars.”
“Speak for yourself.”
“Oh, come now. You think yourself above the ‘Avgin boy,’ but we are on the same shore. If I am not mistaken, you are the Veritas Ratio who collaborated with the IPC on a powerful inhibitory serum. They gave it to me when I was…” loosening his tie, Aventurine revealed the brand carved into his neck, “…an obedient slave. I don’t recall its name, but your initials were marked on the vial. V.R., was it not? I remained unconscious for a month. To this day I wonder what they did to me while I was gone.”
Veritas recoiled, shoulders sagging under the weight of that memory. Lowering his gaze, he murmured: “I’m sorry.”
“Oh, but that’s water under the bridge!” Aventurine laughed. “Don’t wear that face. You aren’t sorry at all.”
“Stop putting words in my mouth. I am sorry for what was done to you, but it was clearly without my approval. I would never condone such a thing, never subject anyone to that fate. Least of all under a slave law I neither support nor acknowledge.”
“I see.” Aventurine had not let him go for a second. A long pause lingered, filled with Veritas’ heavy sighs. “And what of your treatise On Sigonia?”
De origine et psychologia desertorum populorum—commonly known as On Sigonia—was a brief paper commissioned of Dr. Ratio by the Intelligentsia during his years of specialization, in response to a famous sociologist’s question: how was the brazen beauty with which the Avgins were born, a people of barren deserts, connected to their stubborn penchant for deceit? Twelve pages, which Aventurine had devoured with relish after Topaz recommended it during his early days serving under Diamond. He remembers with tenderness the trembling fists of Veritas in that moment.
“If you had read the follow-up article in which I answer the Technological Department’s interviewer, you would know precisely the problem with these mini-treatises: they end up becoming controversial. That particular work was butchered by a mediocre editor who saw fit to twist its meaning entirely; I am not proud of what it became. You wanted an answer. There it is.”
“You geniuses are all the same.”
His tone was cutting, scornful—though his lips still smiled. Aventurine pulled him dangerously close, and Veritas had no chance to step back, not with a pistol pressed to his side. A bead of sweat slid down his temple. Aventurine grinned, emptying the chamber of its bullets until only three remained. Finally, he placed the weapon in Veritas’ hand, forcing the barrel against his own chest.
“This way you can vent your anger once and for all.”
Veritas was struck dumb. “Let me go.”
“Why should I? You look repressed. Let me feed your hunger.”
“Seriously, Aventurine, give me a—”
Guiding Veritas’ finger to the trigger, Aventurine pulled off the first shot. Instinctively, Veritas shut his eyes. Another bead of sweat. A blank shot, then another. A third. At last, Aventurine seized the pistol himself and fired one full round into the sky.
The detonation thundered through the atrium like a storm out of clear heavens, rolling between the columns with the violence of an artificial thunderclap, until at last it faded into the distance—where perhaps it had reached the distracted ears of the pavilion’s guests.
Veritas was gasping for breath, just inches above his lips. Aventurine had let the pistol fall with a metallic clang and forced the doctor to bend into him, chaining him between his arms against the marble column.
At first, Veritas resisted. The palms of his hands, slick with sweat, trembled. His lips—thin, tasted, trembling, reluctant; his shoulders taut, the muscles quivering beneath the fine fabric of his suit. Every attempt to break free became merely another way of yielding, inch by inch, until resistance was reduced to a faint tremor woven into his breathing.
At last, the doctor set his hands on Aventurine’s hips—paused there, his heart hammering. Aventurine could feel it, with his arms wound tight around his shoulders.
“You’re a walking contradiction.”
“Thank you,” Aventurine had replied, his voice dripping with lust. He dove back into his mouth, hungry, quick. “I hear that often.”
“Hm. Tell me more,” Veritas murmured, his hands sliding down to his ass.
Aventurine could scarcely believe he had managed to arouse him with nothing more than three empty pistol shots. Their erections pressed together perfectly, pulsing beneath the cotton of their trousers.
Shedding his jacket, he let the doctor nip at his nipples through his shirt, which were already aching, flushed and hard, begging to be teased. You like being touched here, Veritas teased, biting down on the hardened nubs again, and Aventurine let slip a strangled moan, muffled by his own hand.
Sinfully, he rubbed himself against Veritas’ thigh, and with an innate confidence, the doctor seized his wrists and pinned them to the column. Aventurine was a trembling mess, undone by his constant attention.
His mouth, hot and devouring. His neck, wet from bites and bruising kisses. The friction of their cocks, straining beneath their clothes. Veritas was no less consumed—panting hard, kissing him over and over as if that were the only language he had ever known. Their breaths mingled. I want you everywhere.
“Touch me,” Aventurine kept pleading, with rare, pathetic desperation, his voice cracked and fragile. They locked eyes, and Veritas freed just one hand, slowly, to unbuckle his belt and drag down the zipper. Guiding Veritas’ hand lower, Aventurine began moving his hips, faster and faster, until he was entirely undone—hair and clothes disheveled, cheeks blazing. Disbelief flickered across Veritas’ face. Aventurine laughed in a breath. “Don’t tell me you’ve never touched anyone like this before.”
“You’d be right,” Veritas answered, denying him the chance to respond further. He gave a squeeze, wrenching another whimper from Aventurine.
“You’re clever.” Aventurine collapsed into the crook of Veritas’ neck. “You learn so, ah! So quickly…”
“And you are very sensitive,” the doctor had replied, stroking him carefully, and Aventurine shuddered with every motion. Aeons, the way he looked at him—as though consuming him alive, tearing through his bones, laying waste to his insides. It was unbearable.
“You’re wet. And I’m not even touching you beneath the fabric.”
“Stop saying things like that.” Aventurine lunged for his lips again. “Just fuck me.”
The heat around Veritas’ strong hand only intensified, and Aventurine used the kiss to smother his pitiful cries. He was caught in a storm of emotion and wanted only to feel Veritas around him—the thigh between his, the hand gripping his soaked erection. You’re beautiful, the doctor had murmured. I imagine you hear that all the time. No, Aventurine had shot back. They imply it, but never so directly.
It didn’t take him long to come. With one last, ragged sigh, he clutched Veritas’ shoulders, digging his nails into the taut muscle. Ratio, Ratio, Ratio, he muttered through clenched teeth. The metallic clatter of his belt buckle against the marble column. “Fuck, Ratio…”
“You’re truly naïve.”
“What?”
Veritas had lifted his chin almost formally. The wristwatch—something Aventurine had not noticed at all—was blinking. “The Intelligentsia just informed me they’ve secured the medallion.”
“Excuse me?” Aventurine was still struggling to catch his breath. Veritas had let him go, zipping his trousers back up. The sound had made Aventurine jolt violently.
“Your goal was to distract me. Mine was the same. I thank you for playing along.”
He stepped back, leaving Aventurine to reflect against the cold marble.
“And Topaz? What about her? The auction—”
“Relax. The medallion was taken long before the auction began. I came with a team of eight other scholars. Don’t worry: the Intelligentsia will be happy to negotiate with the IPC if you value it so highly. But as it happens, it belongs to Veritas Prime University and was stolen from us months ago.”
“You’re lying.”
“Why would I?”
Aventurine bit his lower lip, watching Veritas withdraw. “Alright. Very witty, Doctor. Truly surprising.”
Retrieving the pistol from the floor, reloaded with four cartridges, he aimed it at Veritas. The man turned, raising a single brow. “Go ahead. Shoot.”
Aventurine pulled the trigger. Miraculously, the shot struck a column instead of Veritas. At last, trembling, he let it drop again. Veritas regarded him with a note of curiosity, then stepped closer, kicking the pistol away across the floor.
“Don’t come near me,” Aventurine nearly shouted. Humiliation and fury burned through him—but Veritas kissed him, and the world dissolved into nothing.
“Is this the first time you’ve failed to complete a mission?”
Reluctantly, Aventurine nodded. “So what?”
“You’re young. Inexperienced. You have your whole life ahead of you. What are you doing in the IPC?”
“What do you care?” Aventurine snapped, cheeks blazing, throat dry.
Tilting his head, Veritas leaned closer, his eyes the color of dawn. There was pity in them. They said I’m sorry, like a thousand other eyes before his—smug, disdainful. His sister had once told him that one day the dawn would shine again over Sigonia. She couldn’t have known. But years later, Aventurine would be certain she had meant him.
“I had fun,” the doctor said at last. “Let’s do it again.”
Aventurine would see him again two months later, in Opal’s office, speaking of missions.
*
Aventurine flings open the door to his apartment with one arm, dragging Dominik inside without breaking their feverish kiss. The taste is heady, saturated with alcohol that now courses in his veins and clings to his skin, leaving him heavy, pliant, vulnerable. The world spins too fast—stairs, hallway, handle, bedroom—until he can barely register the sensation of being thrown onto the bed, mouth to mouth, tongue against tongue.
His partner gropes him between the legs and Aventurine jerks violently, trying to close them. Dominik doesn’t allow it, prying his thighs apart, forcing space where there is none. Then his fingers slide to the zipper, and Aventurine lets him, surrendering to the inevitable—the trousers stripped away. His boxers feel impossibly tight against his slim hips, or perhaps it’s only in his mind. He can’t focus on a single thing.
It’s dark, though by his guess it must be six, six-thirty in the evening. He looks anywhere but at Dominik, desperate for distraction. He rubs his temple while the photographer lowers his head, trying to take him into his mouth—startling, given Aventurine has no erection, and perhaps will not find one tonight.
He fumbles blindly toward the nightstand. The box of Xanax is still there, where he left it that morning. With trembling fingers he manages to grab it, shake a pill into his palm, and swallow it dry, his throat raw from wine and whisky. Wine, whisky, and Xanax. Perhaps he’ll die, now that he thinks of it. He’s a wreck. Oh, by the Aeons. He’s surely going to die. Qlipoth, Gaiathra—whichever. Let someone save him.
And then his eyes meet another’s. Two bright blue beacons staring from the crate in the corner. Club. The creature, motionless, watches him with that silent, judging air that weighs more heavily than words. A mute feline tribunal, crushing his stomach more than Dominik’s hand ever could. Club hops forward, into the faint wash of moonlight across the floor. At that moment, Dominik startles with a yelp and pulls away from Aventurine.
“What the fuck is that thing?”
“Don’t worry,” Aventurine says, trying to pull him back down on top of himself. “It doesn’t understand what’s happening. It’s fine.”
“The hell it’s fine. Why is it looking at me like that?”
It all happens in a flash, far too fast for Aventurine to truly register. A dark blur darts across his vision and, before thought can catch up, the creature is already on Dominik. Club must have mistaken the photographer for an intruder, a threat, because she launches without hesitation, with the fury of something that knows no fear. The impact is violent enough to knock Dominik off balance. He stumbles, curses through clenched teeth, and thrashes against its grip. Club clings to him for several seconds, growling with a guttural sound—half a hiss—before Dominik seizes it and hurls it to the floor.
Aventurine’s head spins. One moment he was pinned to the bed, his clothes in disarray; the next, he’s watching a scene straight out of some obscure horror film, the kind he and Topaz would laugh themselves sick over. Dominik, his face twisted in equal parts rage and shock, whirls around and storms out, slamming the door hard enough to rattle the windowpanes.
Aventurine scoops Club up and cradles it against his chest, stumbling back, while Dominik’s agitated voice echoes from beyond the door. Panic bites at him. He grabs the handle and yanks the door open. Veritas is home.
At the top of the stairs, leaning against the railing, Aventurine watches as Dominik and Veritas—professor’s briefcase tucked neatly under his arm—circle one another. Dominik doesn’t utter a word. He opens the front door and leaves, slamming that too. Silence follows. Veritas lifts his gaze upward, toward him.
“Okay.” It’s the first thing he says. His tone is surprisingly calm before he adds: “Do you want to explain what exactly is going on?”
Spooked, Club leaps from Aventurine’s arms, bounding down the stairs. In a second, it’s nestled in Veritas’ arms, purring as he strokes it with practiced reassurance.
“I can explain,” Aventurine says, though it’s a lie. A retch grips his body and, a moment later, he bolts for the bathroom, nearly slipping on the slick tiles. Dropping to his knees, he heaves—first air, then vomit. Acid, mostly; acid and bile. The rest is strangled coughing. Veritas arrives an instant later, Club purring by his feet.
“Rule number three.”
“Oh, fuck you, Ratio.”
“Casual encounters. Though I’ll give you this. You brought him home. Met him at the casino?”
“What? No. He’s the photographer from the shoot.” Aventurine clutches his stomach, feeling the alcohol rising again. This time, he’s more worried about the Xanax. He forces two fingers down his throat and gags, sobbing quietly as tears streak his face. “I’m fine,” he insists, before Veritas can disagree.
“I have serious doubts,” Veritas replies coldly. “What did you take?”
“Xanax and wine.”
“Ah. So you want to die.”
Aventurine forces a crooked, false smile. He clings to the porcelain rim of the toilet and vomits again.
“What the fuck, Ratio. If you’re not going to help me, just leave.”
“And how exactly should I be of help? You seem to be managing quite well on your own.”
“Exactly. Leave. For the love of Qlipoth…”
“Do you need some water?”
Against his will, Aventurine nods. “That’d be fantastic.”
With his face still buried in the toilet bowl, Club brushes against him, purring, filling the air with its usual sweet scent. Veritas returns with a glass of cold water from the fridge—though tap water would have been just fine—and kneels beside him, watching him drink.
“Xanax and wine,” he repeats, as if savoring the resonance of the words. “What possessed you?”
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Fine. What do you want to talk about?”
“For the Aeons’ sake, what do you want me to say? I’m sorry, Ratio, for almost fucking the photographer while high on Xanax?”
“When you messaged me this afternoon, I almost came to the casino. Do you know why I didn’t?” Veritas asks. Aventurine shakes his head. “Because I thought you were smart enough to know when it’s too much. Have you figured it out now?”
This time, Aventurine nods. “Yeah.”
“Good. I’ll make dinner.”
“Ratio.” Aventurine grabs his wrist. “Really. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done it.”
“I know. But I can see you regret it. If you need anything, I’m downstairs. Wash your face.”
He wipes his eyes with his fingers. “Alright. Sorry again.”
“Apology accepted. Club? Come to daddy.”
The catcake follows Veritas down the hall, leaving Aventurine alone in the dark bathroom.
*
Despite saying he isn’t angry, Veritas sulks for three days. At the table, they barely speak, and if Aventurine tries to bring up the incident, he’s promptly ignored. On Monday evening, they watch another film with Topaz, but halfway through, Veritas excuses himself, citing exhaustion, and goes to bed. Nice going, Aventurine, Topaz mutters when they’re alone. You’re such an idiot. He agrees, lights a cigarette, then abandons the film himself. Upstairs, in his own bed, he tosses and turns until he can’t stand it.
Dominik hasn’t replied to his texts in days. Not that he cares, but he worries the man might spread word about Veritas being in his home. When he hears Topaz slip into room number three, he leaves his own and lingers outside Veritas’ door. Knocks softly. Veritas isn’t asleep.
“Come in.”
The blinds in Veritas’ room are drawn just enough for moonlight to filter through. Faint, colored fairy lights dot the walls, their glow adjustable with a small remote. Club rests curled in its bed in the corner—they moved it here after the incident with Dominik. Aventurine steps inside, shuts the door, and lingers as Veritas types who-knows-what on his laptop. He kicks off his slippers and asks permission to lie down. “Of course,” Veritas says. “Make yourself comfortable.”
The air smells of coffee. Empty coffee mugs litter the nightstand. Veritas wears a blue cashmere sweater embroidered with an owl, symbol of wisdom. Aventurine lies on his side, peering at the laptop screen. Veritas, in response, shuts it, sets it aside, and opens the week’s book on his lap. Since moving in, Aventurine has seen him switch books hundreds of times. The pyramid stacked against the wall only grows taller.
“Work that exhausting?”
“I’ve got three jobs: working on the Divergent Universe, the university, and you. Not to mention when the hospital calls me in as a doctor for clinical cases.”
Silence hangs for a beat.
“Seems the IPC gave the UPO an ultimatum not to meddle with their plans for the Eastern planets,” Aventurine says, trying to break it.
“Since when are you interested in politics?” Veritas asks, eyes never leaving the page.
The scent of printed paper. The fairy lights pulsing, slow, then quick. His heart beating the same way.
“You’re interested. So automatically, I am too. Know what Dominik, the photographer, just messaged me? Asked if I’d pay him to keep quiet.”
“Keep quiet about what?”
“When we met, he gave me a speech about you.”
“Oh, did he?”
“Yeah. Said we’re too different, you and I.”
“A sharp investigator. And what else?”
“That he understands why we don’t work as a couple. Why we broke up.”
“Must be exhausting to listen to him. I bet you agreed with him.”
“Well, given I fucked him in the back of a club, yeah.”
Veritas’ eyebrow twitches. “You’d already slept with him before?”
“Hm,” is all Aventurine says. “Thought it was obvious.”
“And you’re paying him, why?”
“He could tell people you’re here. That you’re my Doctor of Chaos. And I don’t want that, honestly.”
“When we were together, you wanted to shout it from the rooftops,” Veritas reminds him. “Now you won’t even let the paparazzi know you’ve got a doctor living with you? And that we’re simply friends? Realistic of you. Anyway”—convenient change of subject—“the IPC always gives ultimatums. There won’t be a planetary war as long as money’s involved.”
Veritas leans back against the pillows. Aventurine stretches out beside him. They’re close. Very close. “I trust your judgment,” Aventurine says. Then, circling back: “I thought you’d be upset if I told the interviewer from the shoot this detail about us. Who’d believe it, anyway? Come on, Doctor, they still think we fuck.”
“Must you use that term? So vulgar.”
Half-parted lips. He reads two words from the page. Discord and Suspicion.
Aventurine studies him. “As you wish. I’m joking. But hey, if you want, you can tell people. Doesn’t matter to me. Tell your students, for example. That’d be funny.”
“Remember when you came to the university with a bouquet of flowers, to repay me for the champagne you kept leaving on my desk?”
“Of course I remember.”
“Since then, my students haven’t stopped asking where you are.”
“What nosy brats!” Aventurine bursts out laughing. “Didn’t think I mattered that much to them. Is it because they see you as such a grumpy introvert they can’t imagine you with a boyfriend?”
“I don’t know. What do you think? To me, it’s just appearances. That bouquet you brought was excessive. I could barely see you through all those roses.”
“So, tell me,” Aventurine says after a pause. “Are you angry about what I did three days ago?”
“Which of the two things? Sleeping with the photographer, or the Xanax?”
“How should I know? You tell me.”
“I’m not angry. The desire to change has to come from you. As for me, I’ve already written twenty pages of my paper.”
“You’ll let me read them?”
“Maybe. You focus on keeping your appointments with the psychologist.”
Veritas stretches thoughtfully. Aventurine seizes the chance to snatch the book from his hands. From the blurb, it looks like a thriller. “How do you read this stuff? I thought you were cultured.”
“Even I need some mindless entertainment. Just like you and Topaz with your niche films.”
Aventurine rolls across the blankets, skimming the opening lines of chapter one. “So, what’s the weather tomorrow, Mister Meteorologist?”
Veritas taps his phone to check. “It’ll rain.”
*
The next day marks the last week of October, and as predicted, it rains from morning on. It’s also one of those rare days when Veritas stays home, no lectures to teach. Topaz slips out of the apartment at six, Aventurine half-awake at the creak of the guestroom door, her footsteps tiptoeing across the floor. The day before, she’d told him that in the IPC’s Strategic Department, tensions with the UPO were rising. She herself came from a planet occupied by the IPC—just like him with Sigonia—and yet she’s an avid supporter of the Corporation’s colonizing policies. How that’s possible, he has no idea.
A few seconds later, two notifications from Dominik, buried under the flood of social network updates. Waiting for the money.
Aventurine is curled up in Veritas’ bed, where he’s spent the night, the doctor still beside him, breathing heavily in sleep. To answer the messages, he sits up, reaching for the ashtray on the window ledge. The duckling-pattern sheets radiate warmth against his cold skin. Aventurine opens the banking app, flips to the “transfer” section. Just a handful of credits is enough to silence public opinion. Beneficiary’s IBAN, sequence of XXX—done.
In the chat with Dominik:
Aventurine: Au revoir. (attached: a photo of Club asleep in its bed)
He drops back into bed and passes the time counting Veritas’ sighs. The doctor’s arm rests near his side, his lips curved in a gentle line. The nose: a sharp little bridge. Eyelashes, long and bare. Small, piercing eyes. The lingering scent of coffee. Suddenly Aventurine craves scrambled eggs.
He pushes himself up onto his forearms, stretches in his pajamas. He feels Veritas’ arm shifting closer into his space. He could get used to this—but that would be a problem for both of them. So instead, he gets up to make breakfast. Veritas stirs half an hour later, shuffling in with bags under his eyes, wrapped in a bathrobe that does nothing to conceal the clinging boxers or the tight undershirt beneath. Aventurine tries not to notice. After breakfast, no morning news, come the routine checks.
Two days ago, he discovered the grayish infection spreading across his back—a gift of Nihilism, just as expected. Veritas treats it with devices Aventurine has never seen before, seated on the couch, his bare back against calloused fingers, staring at the blank wall between kitchen and living room, thinking it has never looked so bare.
“This house could use some paintings, don’t you think?”
Veritas gives the faintest nod, a half “Hm,” and Aventurine turns back to his phone, fiddling with stocks and bitcoins.
In the afternoon, Jade calls. Strange; they hadn’t spoken in about a month, not since before Veritas arrived. About the time Aventurine last ended up in the hospital after collapsing at work, the third time in a week. It hadn’t happened since August. Veritas had stepped in, reminding him to eat, but the truth—even Aventurine had to admit it—was hard to accept: he forgot. And not out of clumsiness or laziness. His body simply no longer signaled hunger. That, perhaps, was what scared him into signing the clause to keep him at home. Three hundred sixty-five days.
“Actually, what you read in the letter isn’t entirely true,” Jade says on the phone. “Three hundred sixty-five days in which the IPC can recall you in case of emergency, or for short shifts—mornings or afternoons.”
“Without revoking the medical urgency. Got it.”
“How are you feeling, little one?” Jade’s tone is soft, maternal. “And how’s Dr. Ratio treating you?”
“As always. A sweetheart,” Aventurine replies, glancing at Veritas mid-way through a remote talk. Just something to kill the time, he has said. Sometimes it’s hard for him to disconnect from work. As for him, he’s perched in the kitchen with his laptop on the counter. Before Jade’s call, Aventurine had been reviewing collections of watches that regained value over the past month. Outside, the rain taps a light symphony.
“A little bird told me this is all thanks to you. You and Ratio.”
Jade laughs her usual laugh, a melodious sound, not unlike the rain. “And to Topaz’s persistence, too. We needed a third name, a witness, so to speak.”
“Even Topaz?” Aventurine repeats in disbelief. “What a big extended family we’ve got.”
“And Opal,” Jade adds after a beat. “Believe it or not, his opinion was decisive. Back in July, after the trial for the Stone, when you were acquitted and sent back on a mission alone—the infection the doctor told me about had already spread to your left thigh. It was black. I saw it at the hospital, and it chilled my blood. That was the last straw. Opal gave you an ultimatum. Maybe you don’t remember.”
“No. Many of the recent memories feel like they happened years ago. Veritas says that’s normal. All things considered, I’m sick.”
“I’m sure he’ll figure out what those marks are. Trust him.”
“I don’t need to trust him. I already know.”
When the call ends, Aventurine goes back to his bitcoins. Thunder cracks outside, and for some reason he’s pulled back to Sigonia, before he left. It had poured when his sister let him go. Thunder should frighten him, but instead it reminds him of the beginning of his story, the end of Kakavasha. He drifts to the glass doors, slides them open, drawn like a magnet to rare metal. Rain can be terrifying and beautiful at once. Lightning and thunder. But so can the desert: arid and silent.
He takes a step forward, and behind him Veritas calls out.
“What are you doing?” The wired earbuds hang around his neck, dangling. Aventurine watches them swing. Suddenly, with no care for the laptop in Veritas’ hands, which he shuts and drops onto the counter, Aventurine seizes him by the hands. The cord slips free, disconnecting from the laptop, and the doctor stumbles back. Aventurine catches him, spins him around.
“Let’s dance,” he says, his tone not even that ironic.
Veritas flushes in a heartbeat. Aventurine swings him side to side, light as a feather, laughing at the student’s clumsy attempts to follow the invisible rhythm.
“You know I can’t dance,” Veritas protests quickly.
“Why not? Everyone can dance. You just don’t know the technique, that’s all.”
Cold air streams through the open windows. The glass bangs against the wall, and Club bolts upstairs into Veritas’ room for shelter. The radiators are on, creating an unbearable clash of temperatures. Aventurine cares only about dancing, his hand gripping Veritas’ stiff waist. Stop it, for Nous’s sake, Aventurine! the doctor snaps, his voice sharper than Aventurine’s ever heard. The air fills with laughter and protests. Veritas relents reluctantly, spins him—casquet—and Aventurine topples backward into his partner’s arms. Then he lets him go, both of them breathless, their gazes feline, too close.
Now Aventurine studies his hands. Veritas lowers his gaze in the same way. Aventurine touches his palm…
“Scaphoid bone.”
…his fingers.
“Phalanges.”
…a little further down.
“Metacarpal. Really now. Have you developed an attachment to my hand?”
“You do a lot of work. Calloused hands.” Heat thickens between them despite the draft. Another thunderclap startles Aventurine into a jump. Then, laughing, he bolts outside onto the terrace, letting the rain drench him. His eyes light with childlike joy, his smile wide and mischievous as he turns to Veritas. “Come on, Doctor. Let’s dance here!”
“Don’t even think about it.”
“Come on!” He waves him over. Rarely is he this happy. Over rain, of all things. What a disaster. What if he catches a cold? Doesn’t matter: “You have to feel it!”
Veritas lingers in the doorway until Aventurine pulls him out, willing or not, and they continue their dance beneath the downpour—an overwhelming sensory explosion. Rain gathers on his skin, runs down his chest, brushes his nipples, and a soft moan escapes Aventurine’s lips, his eyes locked to Veritas’.
“For Nous’ sake,” Veritas mutters again and again, irritated. But beneath the sharp tone lies a smile, faint but undeniable, betraying his intent. “If I catch a cold—if we catch a cold, gambler—I swear I’ll leave this house. We’re done.”
“But first you’d have to get better, right?” Aventurine laughs, a clear sound that slowly fades as the space between them closes, face to face. This, he thinks, watching the water drip from Veritas’ soaked hair, is the moment they should kiss. Like in the movies. Veritas fixes on the hand brushing his cheek, and, almost absentmindedly, tucks back a strand of Aventurine’s hair.
And yet, nothing happens.
“Let’s go back inside,” Veritas says at last, and he’s the first to move, stepping back into the penthouse. Aventurine lingers in the rain, droplets beating down on his shoulders and clothes, then, with something like disappointment, follows him in. They dry off with kitchen towels.
“How about a bath?” Aventurine suggests. “Upstairs, in the big tub?”
Maybe he’s never mentioned the jacuzzi in his five-star penthouse before, and it’s just as well. If Veritas had known, he would’ve sunk into it weeks ago, spending entire afternoons in the steaming water, chatting with the rubber ducks as though they were the most attentive audience. The power button is barely visible. The very mention of a bath makes Veritas’ eyes light up, his enthusiasm impossible to hide. A big fan, as he’d said earlier.
Now they’re in the bathroom. White tiles reflect the muted light, their bodies moving through misted mirrors and gathering steam. They undress slowly, mechanically, but with an intimacy neither dares name. Veritas’ body, carved like stone, emerges bit by bit. When he slips off his underwear, he does so with his back turned, shyly.
He’s never liked feeling exposed. Layer after layer, his clothes fall away. When he finally sinks into the water, he covers himself with a towel, but it slips from his hands, dropping with a faint, almost imperceptible sound, swallowed by the hum of bubbling water.
They remain like that, bodies unwinding in the hot bath, eyelids closing. The rain outside becomes a lullaby. Aventurine feels compelled to speak.
“Do you like having company when you bathe?”
“No. But I like silence, gambler.” Veritas reaches for the bottles, arms outstretched. “Let me help.”
“Alright, but I warn you: I might end up slipping all over like a fish,” Aventurine teases, voice light.
Calloused hands cradle his head. Aventurine squints his eyes shut to keep out the sting of shampoo. His body tightens in pleasure as Veritas’ fingers brush his skin. He exhales slowly, sparks racing down his spine, his cock twitching in response. So close he can feel Veritas’ breath at his neck, the lavender-scented soap clinging to his skin. Stupid idea. Brilliant, Doctor. His senses sharpen, acute, aware. He should pull away, tell him to stop, yet no words come. Fingers slip through blond strands, bubbles popping by the hundreds. Their familiar dance within the bathtub’s walls. Shallow, ragged breaths. We should stop.
“Aventurine?” Veritas murmurs. “Are you alright? Am I hurting you?”
He can only shake his head. The wound on his back burns worse than ever, and he doesn’t know if it’s a skin reaction or simple arousal flooding his body. He shouldn’t feel anything—yet every touch borders on pain.
“You’re just too good,” he manages. Veritas resumes massaging his scalp. He’s so skilled, his fingers reaching places Aventurine never knew existed. Gentle as always, using only the barest amount of product. Heat and steam. His fingers move from the nape to the forehead in a slow, deliberate glide. Then he turns him, to rinse the wound on his back.
And yet, Ratio’s length presses against Aventurine’s ass. Not fully hard, only halfway, and clearly from the heat of the water. A physical reaction. And yet.
Ratio doesn’t seem to notice, focused wholly on the task, deaf to Aventurine’s quiet moans. And that’s for the best—because if he did, it’d be over. They can’t let things go too far. Circumstances don’t allow it. Veritas doesn’t allow it. Snap out of it.
If he closes his eyes now and pretends nothing matters—he’s had that thought before. But if nothing matters, then neither does this, this fragile, intimate gesture. A small gasp. The hands on his back—meaningless. He likes being touched this way. If nothing matters, then neither does the press of Veritas’ flesh against his own. Nor the tremor shaking through him. Isn’t it enough, just to feel? A physical reaction, nothing more. And their kiss, if it happened now, would be only that: a touch. Flesh against flesh.
Burnt flesh. Veritas pulls back. “I’m finished. Let’s get out.”
He’s the first to rise, vanishing into the folds of his robe. Aventurine hauls himself up, both hands gripping the tub. It feels like the bath lasted no time at all, yet the clock reads six in the evening, the sky darkening into a stretch of bluish clouds. A moment later they’re shoulder to shoulder, standing at the sink. They towel each other off, ruffling damp hair with the same green cloth Aventurine once found stained a month ago. Wine, he reminds himself.
The dryer hums, hot air alternating between Veritas’ head and his own. Still damp, they retreat to their rooms to change, agreeing to meet in the kitchen for dinner in front of the news.
This life means nothing. Yet if he shifted his thinking, maybe it would mean something—something bound up with the love he feels for a man who no longer even looks at him. Aventurine pauses, clean clothes in hand, lights off, rain hammering outside. It means nothing. Not even the soft moans coming from Veritas’ room mean anything.
But the doctor had left the door ajar earlier, and as Aventurine slips through the hallway, he risks a glance inside the guestroom. And there it is, exactly what he dreaded: Veritas, stroking himself against the pillow where Aventurine slept the night before.
Notes:
As always, thanks for reading!
Kudos and comments make me giggle like a school girl!! Consider leaving plenty!!This chapter is very chill, despite the depressing tone of the other. To be honest, I had many ideas for the next chapters... but none for 'October'. So, the best I could do was just getting over with it and deliver it to you asap so I can work on 'November'. Met Gala! Angst! More yearning!
I’m trying to keep the prose on a minimal level of judgment. “It means nothing” and blah blah blah, yes—the point is exactly that. To find a balance between a dry prose and a judgmental, rich prose. Since it’s Aventurine’s POV and he’s literally afflicted by Nihilism… it seemed fitting.
TheGrumpyJournalist on Chapter 1 Fri 05 Sep 2025 10:01AM UTC
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abvsinthism on Chapter 1 Fri 05 Sep 2025 10:45AM UTC
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TomeOfGod on Chapter 1 Fri 05 Sep 2025 05:38PM UTC
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TomeOfGod on Chapter 1 Fri 05 Sep 2025 09:18PM UTC
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abvsinthism on Chapter 1 Fri 05 Sep 2025 09:21PM UTC
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cheriesue on Chapter 1 Sat 06 Sep 2025 11:50PM UTC
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abvsinthism on Chapter 1 Sun 07 Sep 2025 07:39AM UTC
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TomeOfGod on Chapter 2 Fri 05 Sep 2025 09:16PM UTC
Last Edited Fri 05 Sep 2025 09:16PM UTC
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abvsinthism on Chapter 2 Fri 05 Sep 2025 09:20PM UTC
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