[Adastra, Luxomoris. Evans Mansion. Morning]
For the first time in millions of years of civilization!Alright, more precisely — for the first time in weeks of voluntary strike outside the walls of the house — Mark finally showed up at his iron lair with the dragon. Ahem, I mean a swanky mansion soaked in millions of Shurrasacco (the currency of Luxomoris), trailing red wine, and Rei's scent seared into literally every damn detail.
In this mansion, echoing with his father's restless wanderings, Evans made his way to the most prominent place — the spacious hall with a giant baroque chandelier (or hanging death, as he himself dubbed it). At the huge mirrored table, surrounded by objects reflecting the desires of the most avid collector of the era, he lounged comfortably in a soft chair. Spreading his legs, from a side pocket he pulled a pair of scissors, and from a hidden pocket in his shirt — neatly folded bills.
And he began... began cutting out details literally from Rei's collector's bills. Flower to flower, building to building, person to person. First the smaller denomination bills, then the larger ones; from small to large, from color to color, from number to number — everything in ascending order. A psychologist would probably diagnose 'perfectionism', but Mark... Mark doesn't bet on himself.
[The author bears no responsibility for any potential nervous breakdown of a currency collector.]
Rei had just entered the hall, not noticing exactly what his son was doing, he headed to the kitchen with a serious expression. Strangely, he wasn't even surprised to see him return. It seemed that his anger at Mark was so strong that he didn't even notice his completely unmodest revenge. But Mark was not a silent man. He was, to his own and others' misfortune, too loud.
He drawled mockingly:
— Hi, Daddy...
Continuing to calmly cut the bills, he added with affected naivete:
— I kept meaning to ask you: what made you think you had the right to take what didn't belong to you?
Rei suddenly froze, his back tense.
— You're up to nonsense again! Money's gone, decided to remember your childhood? - the man turned and said irritably, not focusing on what Mark had cut out.
— Mmm... — the guy grimaced, pretending to be offended, and added: — Make sure you don't run out! — he threw the remaining bills onto the table with all his force. The sound was so clear that the whole room seemed to shake under their impact.
— Don't talk nonsense, you're already do...ing it, — Rei snorted, but when he looked at the table, he lost the ability to speak. His eyes went crazy; he tried to say something, but Brock's zone had decided to play a cruel trick and cut off his ability to speak.
— Are you crazy?! Is that a copy?! — he finally burst out, so loudly that it echoed through the house, shaking the crystal lightly. Rei looked up anxiously.
Mark only smiled theatrically and threw his head back. He knew how much his father hated this demonstration, so he showed it even more vividly. It was as if he wanted to stupefy the last empathic bits of Rei's impulses.
— Where did you get that?! — Rei exploded, rushing to the table and grabbing the surviving bills so sharply that Mark barely had time to blink. But that abruptness shifted something else inside his brain. Something that was better left alone.
— You know, I've got connections, too... — Mark straightened up. — Inside my head! — he shouted and threw the scissors so that they bounced off the fireplace with a clatter, making one of the most elaborate sounds.
— What's happening?! — Rebecca ran out from the second floor, grimacing in fear and surprise. The screams reached even her.
— Look what your little son has done, you poor, miserable boy?! — Rei said contemptuously, clenching his teeth and pointing at Mark's creation. It seemed his gaze could incinerate Mark and everything along with him.
— Oh... — Rebecca collapsed to her knees, clutching her heart. She didn't understand what scared her more: Mark's antics, her devilishly angry husband, or the very atmosphere of the house when they once again collided.
— Oh, come on, you've made your mother reach her limit! — Rei glared menacingly at the frightened Mark. But he didn't even approach his wife or try to help her. The only thing he needed then — was his own pride.
— You're the one who reach her limit, I didn't start this match with you! — coming to his senses, Mark parried and, walking demonstratively loudly, went out into the garden. He could have rushed to his mother, but he didn't want to make things worse for her. Nor did he want to provoke the dragon any further.
But then Mark suddenly returned to the house — probably remembering that he was desperate. Stepping right up to Rei, he ground out through his teeth:
— Give me back my wallet!
— I ran and tripped! — Rei jabbed his finger at the table with the cut bills. - After that?
Mark looked at him in bewilderment, raising his eyebrows and making a face like an innocent child: — It's my property!
— Well, well! And that was mine, — Rei pointed at the table again. It seemed something in his brain had jammed.
— It was, and then it went wandering! — Mark said snidely. Inside, he already felt defeated, but he couldn't show it to his father.
Rei laughed, stepped over to the fireplace, and pulled out wallet: — See this?
— Give it to me! — Mark lunged, but Rei managed to dodge.
— That's it! — the man immediately threw the wallet into the fireplace, then, with a stone face, cast a cold glance at his son. For the first time, he looked at him as if he were a nothing.
— Space Dog! — Rebecca shrieked, covering her mouth with her hands. In her fright, she even accidentally dropped some... pills?
— Did a diablo bite you? - Mark exhaled, not out of anger, but rather out of frustration and confusion. His heart clenched so tightly it felt as though every capillary would burst. His father hadn't just taken his thing — with it, he had destroyed Mark as his son.
— Can you feel it burning? — Rei snapped his fingers, pretending to sniff, leaning closer to the fireplace. — You can tell — it's leather, — he added, sharply shifting his gaze to the dazed Mark with obvious pleasure. It seemed he was enjoying this spectacle.
— What the... — Mark froze like a statue, gritting his teeth in anger. — You're destroying my stuff! — it was the only thing he could squeeze out just to stand, not to fight.
— Yours are the ones you've earned, — Rei said calmly. — Let's count how many there are... — and began to mimic counting with his fingers. — Ah, that's right... zero! — he concluded, smiling wryly.
— Rei, don't overdo it... — Rebecca shook her head, looking at her husband with pity.
— Rebecca, don't interfere. It's because of you that he's so spoiled, — Rei looked at his wife angrily, but there was also a plea in his gaze.
Rebecca said nothing. She tiredly draped a cloak over her shoulders tiredly and walked out into the yard. Disappointment and resentment were written in her gait. She was just a tired woman who was silent about her tiredness.
— Sorry... — Rei whispered to himself, but didn't even budge to follow her. That's what cynicism looked like through Mark's eyes.
— No forgiveness! — Mark shouted in place of Rebecca and followed his mother, shoving his father lightly with his shoulder.
— I'm not talking to you at all, — Rei shouted after him, stroking his shoulder, but he didn't move even after him. He just rolled his eyes.
Mark approached his mother and gently put his arms around her shoulders from behind. He wasn't skilled in offering support, though he sensed her sadness better than her husband himself. It was his only way to let her know that she had a son — and he was here, right there.
Rebecca placed her hands over his and sighed softly, smiling through a slight sadness. For a few minutes, they stood silently, gazing into the garden. The garden was huge; Rebecca loved tiger lilies and had planted them all around. She saw herself in these flowers, and it calmed her. A part of herself remained nearby: when she wanted to be silent, to cry, or simply to say thank you — it was enough to step into the garden. Despite his allergies, Rei allowed her to grow them outdoors. The garden was magnificent, and Rebecca found in it that very peace. In every sense. She'd tended it for years: her heart saw how much it paid off, and her mind found reasons to be rather than stay.
— Forgive that old fool, — Rebecca said quietly, without taking her eyes off the garden.
— May God forgive, — Mark said, sharply pulling away from his mother.
— But you don't believe in Him… — Rebecca said in surprise, pondering. She was probably trying to figure out if Mark was confused or not.
— Well yeah, — Mark nodded, smiling quietly at her sweet surprise.
— Mark! — Rebecca tapped her son lightly on the shoulder, laughing. Mark couldn't hold back his smile and responded with laughter.
After a few minutes of laughter, Rebecca tensed slightly and said quietly: — Take this, — holding out a bright card to Mark.
— What is this? — Mark asked, glancing at the strange object, trying to restrain his curiosity, although he didn't really understand why.
[Yes, from the outside, people can sometimes be completely illogical.]
— My bank card, — Rebecca said quietly, tucking behind her ear the hair that shone so brightly in the sunlight. It seemed as if she herself was that light.
— Are you sure? You won't won't have any problems because of him? — Mark asked anxiously, pointing at Rei, standing by the door.
Rei turned sharply, as if he could smell it, and walked toward them, demonstratively loud. Poking his head into the doorway, he asked loudly: — What now?
— Personal accreditation, — Mark replied, trying inconspicuously to slip the card into his pocket, without taking his eyes off his father.
— Funny, — Rei muttered, having already caught sight of the bright object, and immediately sneezed.
— Make way, — Mark said, pushing his father lightly and walked on.
— Hey you... — Rei swung at his son, but Rebecca gently squeezed his hand.
— No need, — she whispered, looking at him with pity.
She walked into the house, leaving the garden door open, and a gentle breeze carrying pollen barely brushed against Rei's nose.
Man saw Rebecca's calm face, and felt uneasy. His brain still didn't fully accept her as his wife; it couldn't believe in the reality of what was happening. He froze and held her tightly to himself, as if he wanted to convince himself: here she is... and she is mine.
So they stood, listening to each other's breathing, immersed in their own thoughts. Neither of them spoke first, still hoping for the initiative of the other. This is how the most important words were swallowed — through the soft light falling on them, through the scent of the flowers that filled the house. And it covered the silence, but did not cover the stillness.
[And in this, there was romance, but not love]
▪︎♡▪︎♡▪︎♡▪︎
[Adastra, Luxomoris. Club 'Veravitae'. Night]
— Hey, brother-buddy-bro, what incredible thing was supposed to happen that you yourself, with all your decency, personally invited me to this godforsaken place? — whispered Mark directly into Ostin's ear, sneaking up from behind and lightly placing his hands on his shoulders. He was surprised, and his rapid breathing showed it. Of course! For the first time ever, Ostin had personally invited him to the club. And this guy, known as the moral compass of society, would hardly ever invite anyone to such places.
— Whaaat… — Ostin raised his eyebrows without turning around. He barely moved: breathing even, painfully controlled. He knew Mark was behind him, but his skill at keeping a straight face played its part.
— What is it? What's is it? — Mark laughed and abruptly sat on the neighboring chair, almost losing his balance. — I'm asking, what diablo bit you, won't you give me contacts? — he continued, leaning his elbows on the bar, sitting with his back to it. He was looking directly at Ostin, completely unconcerned with any reaction.
— Bygones, — Ostin sighed and waved his hand. He was uneasy with Mark's insistence, but even more uneasy with contradicting his own principles. Braun let out a heavy sigh and tapped on the glass on the bar counter.
— Eh, noo, sir, this business won't work, all the more it won't go anywhere, — Mark winked, obviously trying to flush his friend out.
— What sir? What business? Who's going where? What are you rambling about? — Ostin protested, but for some reason his gaze remained languid, focused only on the glass. He gripped it so tightly that his fingers turned white. The poor glass was empty. But the guy had no intention of filling it, just held onto it like a shield. Was Ostin drinking alone?
— Ha-ha-ha, — Mark laughed and patted Braun on the shoulder. Ostin twitched from it. Mark couldn't believe his eyes. Such a sullen guy, always so steady... and now he resembled an impulsive teenager caught with a cigarette in his teeth.
— Alright, I'm noting this: this morning I met a very special person. It was around 8:30… — Ostin said seriously, as if recording a court transcript, completely focused, his gaze on everything and nowhere at once.
So formal that Mark rolled his eyes after the word 'special' and stopped listening. Not that he wasn't used to Braun's phrasing — it just sounded stranger than usual now. Too artificial. And who even talks about feelings like that? You're not keeping a transcript, after all! Besides, Evans had no interest in fantasies and facts without concrete action. Ostin, on the other hand, was reactive.
So Evans began catching random glances from people and smiling at every girl who matched at least 50% of his taste. Here — soft and confident movements, there — a careful glance and a slight wink. And then the moment of contact reached him almost immediately. It was expected — Cupid would have envied his skills.
Mark was already prepared to approach the smiling lady, who was clearly flirting just as well as he was. The hunter sensed another hunter — a faint spark of interest gleamed in his eyes. However, he would need to be more cautious today. This game might start without his initiative.
And that's exactly how it happened. After a few glances and smiles, walked up to him on her own. But she wasn't trying to appear seductive. Her posture and facial expression conveyed dominance, not a wish to impress. And that turned Evans on like hell as a direct challenge.
Hunter to hunter, confidence to confidence. This was how the real form of flirting worked: no blah~blah~blah, just attention, eye contact, and posture.
[Let's omit that this game will always have consequences.]
As Ostin finished speaking, he noticed some lady approaching Mark. He realized immediately: Mark had been toying with her with his gaze the whole time, like a diablo, skillfully seducing her.
— How handsome... — the girl said to Mark, fixing her hair. Her eyes briefly caught Ostin, who for some reason was hiding behind the menu. — Boy... — she finished, clearly flustered, throwing suspicious glances at Braun.
— How brave... — Mark replied, gently squeezing her hand and drawing her closer. — Girl... — Mark played along with her fluster, looking straight into her eyes, and gently kissed her hand.
He didn't care about Ostin. When the thrill kicked in, the pleasure dopamine obeyed only the game. The girl laughed, covering her mouth with her hand. Either because of Mark's theatrics or the awkwardness of the situation.
— Your friend doesn't mind... — the girl replied, quickly stepping back from Mark and taking a spot behind Ostin, who was still diligently hiding behind the menu, lightly gripping it with his fingers. — If I take you away for a little dance, — she said, looking into Mark's eyes, but leaning slightly toward Ostin as if asking for his silent permission.
— My friend is playing secret agent tonight, proper boy, — Mark said, covering his mouth with his hand and laughing with his eyes. — Don't mind! — he said and stood up flamboyantly, extending his hand to the girl with theatrical grace.
[Like a true seducer (dash), a master of flirtation (dash). KXM … a gentleman with the energy of stylish propriety and a faint hint of tobacco.]
Then they stepped into the center of the dance floor. People moved aside for them, though not all of them were willing to do so — some only stepped back slightly, so as not to provoke conflict.
Now these two melded in the dance so that only a fool could not notice this vibration of fiery passion. And it was in every damn movement of their bodies. Catching each other's rhythm, they felt the most honest lust with their skin. Even the faintest, barely noticeable touches ignited a new wave of frankness. Oh, the play of nerve endings… oh, the warmth of their bodies. It seemed they noticed no one around them — only reading each other's motive.
No, they weren't speaking. They only exchanged signals, like radio stations: through half-measures, hidden gestures, and glances. Each touch sparked the next, each breath revealed more desire, and each gesture hinted at the inevitable continuation.
[Sometimes words aren't needed if someone nearby can read your energy.]
Ostin was also trying to send signals to Mark. Though they were quite sharp, rude, and full of dissatisfaction. Like a kettle that suddenly lets out that nasty clack in the middle of two hours of the night in the dead silence. It was both a clear, unmistakable hint — take it and do it — and also one that made you want to push it away — don't disturb my nirvana. And Mark was the kind of guy who deliberately ignored what he didn't like, including a sudden dap — the role of a fool.
[Perhaps sometimes the signals should be subtler?]
— Would you like to dance? – the girl cautiously approached Ostin from behind, lightly resting a hand on his shoulder.
— Woman — don't dance! — Ostin shouted loudly without turning, slamming the menu on the table with a sharp movement. The glasses skillfully complemented the orchestra.
— Rude... — she murmured in surprise, and, displeased, stepped away toward another man.
— What the — really?! — Ostin exclaimed, looking around. Neither the guest nor Mark with the girl were nearby anymore. As if they had dissolved at the perfect moment for them, leaving Ostin alone with the peace he had always asked for.
Only bartender came over and set a glass of drink in front of him, as if sensing his desperation mixed with tension.
— Thank you, — Ostin replied, his face flushing with embarrassment. He clearly hadn't expected such a thoughtful gesture.
— You're welcome. You drank alone for the first time tonight... Did something happen? — the bartender asked cautiously, observing his reaction.
— I thought so... — Ostin sighed. — But today I realized that it was only my own fiction, — he leaned over without hesitation, ready to down the whole glass in one gulp.
— Wait, — the bartender said calmly, placing his hand on his wrist: — It's a strong drink, better not to risk it.
— It's all right... I have nothing to risk, — Ostin said sharply, finishing the drink in one go. The bartender could barely hold back a laugh, watching Braun grimace at the burn.
— I'm sorry. But just remember: only those who have been there long have nothing to risk, — the bartender added, pointing to the ceiling, as if to the stars.
— I meant… I thought she was special, — Ostin suddenly revealed himself. He would regret it tomorrow.
— And you? — the bartender asked, wiping a glass and watching him intently.
— And me?! I'm a lawyer, — Ostin mumbled, running a hand over his brow and snickering. — What am I even saying… — he shook his head. — Can I just get drunk?"
— People don't usually ask bartenders that, ha-ha, — the bartender laughed. — But if it leads you to what you need… then go at it With All Insanity! — he shouted, a spark of excitement in his voice.
— With All Insanity! — Ostin responded, raising his glass. — To hell with Mark, With All Insanity!
▪︎♡▪︎♡▪︎♡▪︎
[Still Club 'Veravitae'. Yes, still night]
The scene is not recommended for people not ready for bed scenes and religiously vulnerable. Skipping this part will not affect the understanding of the plot.
And so, having finished their wild dancing, they ended up at the bar. The smell of alcohol and the loud music worked marvelously, blending all the emotions and feelings into an easygoing cocktail of dopamine. Mark had long been undressing her with his eyes, noting every curve and movement, even before approached him in the club. His motives were transparent — and that made it thrilling.
He didn't even noticed Ostin's absence, or, being absorbed in his own excitement, didn't want to pay it any mind. Usually Mark went to such places on his own, to avoid listening to pointless lectures from a reformed conservative.
The conversation was more superficial than any cliché in a romance novel. Mark asked 'Why are you here?', but in his head, thoughts swirled about how much time he had for foreplay. She wondered 'Are you going to work tomorrow?' but deep down, she was thinking about how to make sure he didn't spend the night with her.
He complimented her eyes, she — his audacious smile. But their true thoughts were on something else. So he said he would save her number. And he did, entering it as "beloved." Yeah, Mark simply didn't remember her name — for him, what mattered more was how this night would end.
They began like decent people — or not entirely, but it was clear to everyone: this night would continue in bed. The tension, the glances, and the throbbing in each chest spoke louder than any words.
[In decent society, after all, sex is not treated as a mere physiological need. It's taboo, and any moralist-priest would cross himself.]
They were not lost or failed. On the contrary, they succumbed to temptation with the equanimity of professionals who pretend that circumstances are in control.
He — a handsome, charismatic guy, she — no less attractive and audacious.
[Yet the scriptures of the Bible would label them sinners.]
His — because he had cheated, her — because she hadn't asked about the relationship.
But that night everything was simpler: they were each lonely in their own way, also in a club on top of it, so they simply chose each other as a temporary oasis. Like people searching for tiny doses of dopamine just to forget themselves. No one cares about the quality or duration of the effect. In truth, these two also mixed it with a lion's share of adrenaline.
Mark went into cheating because he knew something he wasn't supposed to — and that realization only spurred his interest and thrill. She went to Mark because love doesn't make you run to clubs or hide from social conventions. But society would never see it as the consequences of unresolved triggers; rather label it as weakness, quietly doing far from the most innocent of things.
[But sometimes the white coat pinches, doesn't it?]
Now they were both looking at each other, and there was neither romance nor promise in their gazes. And it was exactly that which didn't stop them — it was just a moment and its consequences, created by themselves.
This is not a love story that makes you cry into your pillow and point to your partner with a reproachful: "Why don't you do that?'
It was the harsh truth of life — the realization of which causes a mixture of internal stress and physiological tension; followed by sweet denial — the arguments of whose are crazier than any conspiracy theory.
[Can I call it a conspiracy of the soul? Road, where emotions and desires rule the ball, and logic and external rules smoke aside. There are places where rationality will never exist.]
They entered the room she had paid for in advance. Mark inwardly smiled at her independence, but, like a decent guy, he carefully held the door open for her. In her soul she laughed at his decency.
Candles flickered in the room, wax running from them, and the gentle scent of roses blended with the aroma of opened champagne. They continued to dance in the moonlight, then engaged in meaningless talk to show a semblance of purity. And now they were together in bed. A place where many had been, perhaps even themselves.
He wouldn't erase her contact after this night — purely forgetting about it, she won't remind him of her name — wanting to be forgotten.
Starting with pure romance, they gradually forgot about foreplay and ended up against the wall.
Mark pressed her against him, resting his hands on either side, and leaned in, studying every curve of her neck, slowing his breathing to feel her reactions. The phone flashing on the table and the nagging notifications lost all significance to him — all his attention was on her. The girl's soft moans showed distinct priorities, the only reality for him right now.
She moaned skillfully, but not from pleasure, but from impatience. Mark skillfully moved the fabric of her dress, the girl slightly caught his shirt.
They barely looked at each other, not even evaluating bodies. Only sensations, movements, subtle reactions.
[Desperation under the flavor of lust. The diablo would have applauded their synchronized fortune.]
He entered her sharply, almost without any preparation. Tension filled the entire space of the room, and the floor lamp even swayed from the impact. She dug her nails into his back and bit her lip, suppressing an involuntary moan — that very mixture of pain and arousal. It was obviously painful, but it was precisely the sharpness that triggered that surge of feeling, driving one mad. Micro-pain likes to amplify arousal by aggravating nerve endings.
There was no foreplay here, there was intent. Perhaps that's why they initially caused each other slight pain before allowing themselves pleasure.
[After all, the scriptures said: endure.]
▪︎♡▪︎♡▪︎♡▪︎
[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.
Braun 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 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, Ostin 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 one here.