[Adastra, Luxomoris. Pub 'Diabolocus', next day, lunchtime]
Work doesn't sleep, and bills, alas, won't settle themselves. Ostin, a responsible man, had always tried to be an exemplary lawyer, and yet he followed his financial calling — showing up to work despite yesterday's collapses. In general, this is quite natural behavior for a person who is responsible... for others.
Braun eagerly awaited his lunch break, so he could finally reach his place of power — his beloved tavern. His colleagues were almost never there, it was often quite quiet, and even the smell of booze didn't seem so catastrophic. People usually visited this place in the evening or at night, but Ostin preferred lunchtime.
As soon as he stumbled upon the tavern, he immediately realized — this was his space.
[Perhaps that's why he didn't want to betray it? Choosing it over and over again…]
[And now — discard all your projections of the tavern aside and try to understand what was so special about this particular one.]
And it had everything. From the outside, it looked like an ordinary pub where people dropped in for a drink and to chat about great things. But in reality, it was far from ordinary: hidden among countless buildings, you could only find it by turning a corner... and in that corner grew a cluster of trees. Somewhere amid all this chaos, the tavern was tucked away. It never occurs to anyone in their right mind that someone would open a pub in a place like this, right?
Ostin discovered it thanks to colleagues who, at their first meeting, decided to solidify their acquaintance, a~la connection, with a drink. Yet in the end, it was he — the newcomer— who became a frequent visitor, while the colleagues perhaps showed up here only occasionally, and at different times of day. After all, from morning to evening, they pretended to be ordinary, diligent lawyers, visiting the proper, 'studious' places. And Ostin chose this tavern while truly remaining diligent.
For its old wooden walls and the scent of raw materials. For the chirping of singing birds outside. For the incredibly delicious food at a reasonable price. And most importantly — for the atmosphere! In it, a guest from the judicial system at a time like this — could only be him, with no extra ears behind the walls. And even the waiters, though they liked Ostin, didn't know his name. And Braun liked them, but remembered only their faces.
[It is ironic that the diligent may visit pubs for the sake of solitude, while the not-so-diligent tend to pick the most studious places for the sake of the tranquility of a social mask.]
But at that lunchtime, Ostin seemed to have forgotten what it meant to simply live and breathe. He imagined that everyone was looking at him slyly and judging him for looking so 'unfit': here was that grandfather wiping his glasses, probably to see how he'd rolled; here was that waitress not smiling today, likely disappointed by his behavior; and here was that guy, all eccentric, smiling at Braun, probably thinking himself superior, laughing at him....
Wait, isn't that Frank? Ostin decided not to look again — he didn't want to embarrass the guy. Or rather, himself.
Baun felt completely crushed after his friend's behavior last night. Mark seemed to fancy himself as quite the priest of love. All these thoughts! Ostin was exhausted not only mentally, but also physically. Still, he headed to the tavern where people usually got drunk — he just wanted to eat in silence, collect himself.
— Oh, Ostin, didn't expect to see you here, — the guy at the table said, taking his umbrella and walking gracefully—confidently toward him.
— Frank... Didn't expect to see you in places like this, — Ostin said, surprised. He hadn't imagined it at first — it really was Frank. But why was he here?
— Oh, not really. I drop in sometimes. I'm curious to see people getting drunk in the middle of lunch, — Frank grimaced and laughed so loudly the Grandpa flinched and stopped wiping his glasses. He shot them suspicious glances, apparently he liked to eavesdrop.
— Oh, no, I don't drink! — Ostin waved his hands. He didn't want to be seen as an alcoholic. Especially a social butterfly like Frank, who posed a direct threat to his competence.
— Well, that's obvious, colleague, — Frank laughed loudly. Grandpa was already watching them with indignation, adjusting his glasses.
Ostin laughed quietly, embarrassed — he was deeply unsettled by the grandfather's reaction, far too demonstrative for his old age.
— Anyway, let's go to my table, — he suggested, lightly touching Ostin's shoulder with one hand and pointing to an empty seat with the other. At the same time, he cast a quick glance at the grandfather, as if warning him.
— Yes, of course! — Ostin stammered, flustered.
Ostin's embarrassment was almost amusing, yet it pressed on him more strongly, destroying the last cells of his pride. Ostin, first an ordinary student and later a lawyer, had gone through his path without any great accomplishments, praise, or certificates — everything clearly followed the plan. Like everyone else. Yet Frank had always been different… It was easy to condemn this guy for his appearance, you know, showing off. But that was merely part of his persona.
Frank was a fast-tracked student: by twenty-three he already had a degree and a license, and by twenty-six—the kind of experience many junior lawyers could only dream of. They studied in the same group for only a couple of years, crossed paths rarely, and their first acquaintance seemed utterly ordinary. Over eight years, their paths crossed only a few times. And when Ostin began working, during one of the strikes, he immediately recognized an old acquaintance.
— Are you new? — Frank asked, and it struck Ostin so hard... as if Frank were seeing him for the very first time.
— Yes... — Braun answered awkwardly. And then he looked at Frank like a puppy, still hoping he would remember.
Where Ostin was just learning to crawl, Frank was already flying.
— I never would have thought we'd be having lunch together, — Ostin said, his eyes lighting up. Perhaps this meeting would shake off the built-up negativity; maybe the world would finally extended its hand to him after years of being ignored.
[If only you knew, Ostin, that a hand is extended only to a dog, wouldn't have hoped.]
Indeed — he hardly ever socialized properly with his colleagues, let alone had meals with them. It wasn't that he wasn't invited, it was simply that Braun wasn't comfortable allowing himself to live on his own dime and dine among people he'd always considered superior.
Frank, on the other hand, was the exact opposite. He himself gravitated toward those who seemed far too high-status to Ostin. But Frank never divided people: he ranked himself with both kings and pawns. His academic knowledge and natural ease only played to his advantage. Even his unorthodox style for a prosecutor didn't bother the band of traditionalists in the slightest.
No wonder this guy was always up for a Friday night drink or offering coffee to a senior colleague still coming down from the strain of recent hearings. Frank wasn't just the company's golden boy — he was respected there as a man among men.
— I understand your surprise. I thought I might be unpleasant to you, but... now it's as if fate itself has granted us a chance... — Frank said, placing a hand over his heart. — Take a closer look... — he added seriously, watching at his colleague cautiously.
— Fate... — Ostin bit his lip. His eyes darkened, and the echoes of the years past swirled in his head. The voice of the past scraped across his consciousness without ceremony, triggering a flash of memory that struck lightning fast:
"— Life doesn't bring such different people together, — there he stands, smoking that cigarette. From that day, he decided he would quit.
— And I believe in fate, — Mark replies with cheeky confidence, as if laughing through his words.
— That's silly, — Ostin waved him off irritably. For some reason, he decided that Mark thought him a fool."
He seized a glass of water and took a several sips, but Mark's voice wouldn't leave:
"— Fate will bring us together once more, — and again that laughter, that confident step, leaving without looking back. — Fate will bring us together again."
Ostin began to scratch nervously at the leather couch. A ringing nothingness echoed in his ears, as if he had found himself in a void — a void he somehow heard, saw, and felt. As if he himself were that void.
From the outside, it seemed he was merely staring into nowhere, lost in thought. But in reality, Ostin was looking deep inside himself, but without his own control. Without permission. Technically. As if he were his own hacker. A hacker of his own consciousness.
— Something wrong? — Frank asked in surprise, snapping his fingers in front of Ostin's eyes.
— No, no, — Ostin shook his head, waving his hand lightly, barely forcing a smile. Against the backdrop of his frightened eyes, it looked eerie. — Just remembered someone who also liked to meddle with fate, — he added, clutching the napkin in his hands. When had he even grabbed it?
[And really, Ostin, which part of your brain is in charge of picking random objects as a way of expressing stress? 'Oh, Yep, the prefrontal cortex in a dance with the basal ganglia and a support service in the form of the cerebellum.' Oh what a delicate science, thank you, reference book].
— Oh... yeah, it's cynical to speak of fate when you are one of its arbiters, — Frank laughed, steering the conversation. — I remembered someone who loved to talk about it — probably by fate — vanished eight years ago, — he mused, catching Ostin's curious gaze. — Sylvester was the name.
Braun went pale and tensed every muscle in his body. — I'll step aside... a little, — he whispered, and without waiting for his colleague's reaction, headed for the restroom.
— Yes, of course, don't worry! — Frank called after him, following every motion. Leaning a hand on the table, gently bouncing his leg, he sipped his coffee slowly, committing every detail of the last ten minutes to memory:"You're far too good, Ostin, to be bad"— he thought with a faint smirk.
Ostin approached the sink and stared into the mirror. He was scared of himself — he looked like he had just faced death. His heart hammered violently, the air in his lungs seemed to vanish, and his body began trembling slightly. He touched his face, then, in a desperate rush, splashed it with water, as though trying to erase the tension, even if only visually.
Frank's phrases swirled in Ostin's mind: "Sylvester", "disappeared eight years ago"... and then — "my name is Mark", "fate", "fate", "fate is just like that".
Ostin bent over and drank water straight from the tap, not caring at all about its safety — greedily, like a dog parched with thirst. As if trying to gag himself — both inside and out.
[But, Ostin, there's no way you can shut your mind. Such a heavy burden the human race carries, such is our price!]
Images surged over him: Mark's passionate dancing with the stranger, his own desperate, pleading messages begging him to stop.
He remembered typing them, sitting on the street near the club, with a ridiculously naive hope — just to see her leave Mark.
He remembered how cold it had been then. Not from the weather, but from the oppressive thoughts. They were like icebergs smashing him to bits.
And he remembered how Mark hadn't even read... any of his twenty messages. Sent almost without pause — every minute-two.
And just at that moment, as if for the diablo's amusement, a woman passed by the bathroom. She emanated a strong, rich gourmand perfume with a clear cherry note.
And there was that cursed cherry again. That malevolent smell struck his head, and along with it —Mark's phrase: "Don't you like cigarettes with cherries? Ha-ha". "Mdeee, my father wished me the same life", — fragment of his voice added mentally.
Ostin shuddered.
It overwhelmed him. Clenching his fists, leaning against the wall, head lowered, he shouted:
— Fucking asshole! — and didn't even glance at the mirror across from him.
He refused to accept himself like this. To acknowledge that reflection.
The shout echoed — and Frank heard it, as did several of the guests in the pub. The waiter abruptly stopped wiping the glasses. That very grandfather stood up decisively from his chair, staring toward the restroom — ready to witness someone else's shame. A few guests exchanged glances; someone turned their head. A dead silence fell, pierced only by the clinking of plates and spoons.
Frank slowly turned his torso toward the door and called: — Ostin, is everything all right?
He spoke so gently and calmly that the words struck harder than the shout itself.
With a faint smile.
And, almost mechanically, touched his upper lip with his tongue.
Hearing his name and Frank's voice, Austin went weak. He ran a hand over his forehead…and only then noticed the wide-open door.
He went pale instantly.
His eyes flitted from side to side, as if he were the last sinner.
[Who are the judges, Ostin?]
And suddenly it hit him: all this time, he had completely forgotten — that he's not a damn bit alone here.