Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

“And so being young 

and dipped in folly

I fell in love

With melancholy”

—Edgar Allan Poe 

“It’s over, Ratio,” The woman pronounced the words mercilessly, each of them falling as if reading them directly from a death sentence over the rejected manuscript. “I wouldn’t wish to say it this way, but I will. You’re not going to go anywhere with this” 

He stood on the other side of her office table, deadly still. There was something that felt oddly final about that moment, even though all around him the world went on as usual, even though all around him everything seemed to be perfectly alright. The office building was filled with the faint rustle of papers being turned, pens scribbling over various sorts of documents, the familiar clicking and whining of typewriters, the steps of the employees going and leaving around the ample space. There was the smell of coffee in the air, and someone was singing quietly under their breath. Such a mundane picture, painted at the very end of the world. 

He didn’t say anything. There was nothing to say, really, and he wasn’t the kind of man who begged, or stammered, or crumbled down before the eyes of others. So he kept quiet, and accepted his defeat with the grace of a willing martyr before the gallows.

The way she handed him his manuscript was with poorly-concealed contempt, with little care or gentleness when  it came to handling the loose pages, traced over with the patterns of words summoned by ink. Such indifferent carelessness, for nothing but his life’s work. 

“Want my honest advice? Just stick with teaching, or even better, go back to medicine. It pays better”

The manuscript was barely in his hands when she dropped it, as if she wanted nothing else to do with it.

“Was it not good?” He finally spoke after a beat of silence.

The woman, the last editor that’d been willing to read his work, eyed him from over the stern rim of her glasses, perched dangerously on her nose. Her glare was unforgiving, a Parcae or a merciless god of judgment.

“It’s not really a matter of if it’s good or if it’s bad, Mr. Ratio. It’s too experimental, not to mention blatantly  ambitious, unacceptable for a first impression as a writer without a reputation as one. People simply won’t read it. Either you write something people will understand, or you don’t write anything at all. That’s simply the way it is” 

The manuscript was heavy, as he cradled it with his broad hands. He caressed the pages with his fingers, and even though gloved he could perfectly imagine the texture of the paper as if his touch was truly bare. 

There are many things to human existence that are impossible to find an answer for. Questions, so many questions, that are left without a factual result, because it’s simply impossible to find the true meaning of everything ambiguous, which doesn’t mean that we can’t try. That is what ex-military doctor, brilliant yet unsuccessful professor Veritas Ratio had always believed, ever since his very youth when he yearned for knowledge and to find the way to the absolute Truth. 

But then how can you, in the search for Truth, lose all meaning? That’s another question Veritas has left unanswered, yet it haunts him every waking day he spends with dreams that, despite his perseverance, remain just dreams. 

Outside the publishing house’s building, a heavy curtain of rain had started to fall in droughts upon the city. Veritas stood at the threshold of the building, politely moving aside to let some of the employees pass, and he let out a deep, exhausted sigh from the bottom of his chest. The rain was cold and he was in no mood to enjoy it, yet the smell had always been quite comforting.

He hid his manuscript under his long trench coat, right underneath his arm, and he ran out into the rain, the cold pellets sliding down his face and hair, freezing fingers that caressed his skin and left him hollow. The faster he found a passing trolley, the less time he’d have to spend under the storm. 

He found the street completely devoid of human presence; considering the weather, it was not rare but also not ideal. He huffed, irritated, gripping his manuscript a little bit tighter under the coat and looking at both ends of the street. In a single moment, the world seemed to have gone empty, and the rain went no softer. His breath drew elegant figures in the cold, and he’d be soon completely drenched if he was to stay under the rain any longer. He didn’t fancy a cold, precisely, not in his precarious circumstances.

“Are you lost?” A sudden voice spoke from somewhere behind him. 

He turned. Walking down the side of the street, with an umbrella over his head, was a distinctly elegant man. Veritas could not completely discern his features in the heavy rain, but he managed to catch the glint of an expensive watch and a heavily ringed hand.

He wore a hat and quite fancy clothes, far fancier than his own. His eyes were hidden by tinted glasses, rimmed in glistening gold, and the hand that grabbed the umbrella with long fingers was covered in a black, leather glove that seemed quite expensive. From what he could see, the man had a lean complexion, elegant and sinuous. His voice was the one of a young man, and the lilt he used rather playful, charming to the point of suspicion.

“I can find my own way” He responded, unsure of himself; it was the first time he spoke aloud since the rejection. “The rain, though, was not within my calculations” 

The rain sang its chant all around them, falling and crashing over the asphalt; it seemed to get heavier with each second gone by. It pattered over the umbrella, as crystalline, thin trickles of water dripped from the edges, further enveloping the stranger in an enigmatic veil of rainfall. Through the coverage, Veritas caught the edge of a smile. 

“Oh, it’s no problem for me to accompany you to your destination. Is it far?” 

“My apologies, but it was my plan to take a trolley. It’s too far for us to make the walk anyway” 

“Ah. Well, what kind of gentleman would I be if I was to leave you here, all drenched like a stray little bird? I’ll help you to the next one, Mr…” 

“Ratio. Doctor Veritas Ratio” 

“Is that really your name or is it a fake one? Sounds like a fake one” 

Veritas couldn’t believe what he was hearing, but the cold was seeping through the indigo cotton of his trench coat, and he feared the pages of his work getting wet, so he ducked to fit under the umbrella’s coverage. There was a… rather pronounced height difference between him and his benefactor, which wasn’t really to his advantage in this situation. He had to walk slightly bowed down, and still one of the thin, little trickles of water that slipped down the umbrella’s side brushed against his temple, down to his chin, slipping down his neck and into his back. A shiver went up his spine, yet he said nothing. 

“I assure you, it is my real name” 

Blond strands of hair fell around an elegant collar. Even when sharing the umbrella, Veritas could still not see his face; only the elegant hat, expensive-looking, the golden locks that fell over his face and that curled around his shoulders, caressing a handsome jaw. If that wasn’t enough, the glasses further hid his eyes from view. It didn’t bother him at all; it made for easier conversation, and he could focus on other details, like the turquoise earring that hung from his ear or the green and golden details strewn over his designer’s coat, elegant and overcomplicated. 

Veritas heard the low rumble of thunder in the distance. He had to snuggle closer, as they walked through the cobbled streets. Their feet stepped over puddles, which made him notice his benefactor’s fancy shoes, provoking his leather second hands to look crude in comparison. Around them, the city was a collage of grays and blues under the moving painting of the rainfall. 

“If I might be so rude, what are you holding under that coat of yours? I hope I’m not aiding a criminal of some sort, though I wouldn’t take back my offer if that was the case” 

Veritas stared at the stranger’s side. So he’d noticed. With a thumb, he caressed the pages of the manuscript, so closely kept under his long coat. He exhaled, watching his own breath materialize before him as he bowed his head, eyeing the distant trickles. 

“It worries me, that you wouldn’t. I’ll have to disappoint you though, as it’s just a manuscript that I fear might remain forever unpublished” 

The stranger raised his chin, slightly. 

“Are you a writer?” 

Veritas huffed, bitterness seeping into his smile. 

“A writer does not truly become a writer until someone has read and understood his words. Until then, he’s only human”

“What is it about?” The stranger asked.

Veritas noted that he had quite a beautiful voice. He hesitated for a moment. 

“It’s a novel,” Nothing more shameless than confessing one’s art. “About a man looking for an answer” 

“To what?” 

“To everything” 

The corner of the stranger’s lips lifted. 

“That’s quite ambitious” 

“It’s just fiction” 

“Fiction can say a lot of true things” They stopped near a sidewalk. 

“God, I hate the rain,” The stranger said, still holding that sideways smile. “It always ruins everything, doesn’t it? Be it clothes or fleeting moments” 

“I don’t think so,” Veritas responded; a trolley was approaching, from the other side of the street. He’d have to run soon. “I really don’t think so” 

The trolley stopped near them with a mechanical whine. Some other people ran out, covering their heads with whatever they could muster; the day’s paper, their suitcases, even their own hands, ducking under a rain that was  nothing but unforgiving. In that moment though, as Veritas watched them through the drizzle, they were just specters, insinuations from an impressionist painting, moving in tandem with the song of the world. Distant.

When he turned to the stranger, he saw that he was facing back. The glasses had slipped a little forwards, but it was enough. Veritas found himself staring right into the stranger’s eyes. They were like a kaleidoscope, a soft ring of light magenta, then one blue, and they were so mesmerizing, bright and yet a part of them so dark, so impossibly sad.

The stranger smiled. 

“I’d like to read it someday” 

The rain was quiet, and they were two strangers under an umbrella. Veritas had the  strange feeling that he had either met an angel or the devil, but in no way a creature of this world.

“What’s your name?” He asked.  

The stranger smiled again. There was an amused lilt to it. 

“You’re going to miss your way home” 

By the time he finally reached the trolley, having ran as fast as he could until his hands closed around the metal pole to jump onto the back of the vehicle, his overgrown hair was sticking to his face in wet, dark strands. The back of his trench coat trailed behind him, dancing with the wind, and as he turned to look back, he saw the stranger still there, walking calmly through the downpour, under his black umbrella. There, alone under the storm, he seemed like the loneliest man in the world. 

So much for ending up drenched anyways. 

Veritas stared at the passing city for another stolen moment, inhaling the familiar smell of the rain, and exhaling into the cold. It was so different, the smell of rain in the city than the one in the countryside. Here, it seemed to carry much deeper sorrows.

Another moment, and he stepped into the warm interior of the trolley, taking a seat and leaning his chin over his hand to stare out the windows. Rain obscured the world outside, a fuzzy collage that hinted at a forgotten memory of one’s youth.

By the time he made it home, the city was dark. He walked the last steps to the entrance of the red-bricked building, the entrance faintly illuminated by the golden light of a sinuous streetlamp. A dog barked at him from the building next door, but he paid it no mind, hastily turning the key.

Once inside, he quickly walked up the stairs to his floor. He took a look at his wristwatch, the one fancy thing he owned. He wasn’t that late, or at least he hoped so as he stopped by his apartment door and turned the key, pushing it open.

Inside, the living room was faintly lit by the cozy lights flooding it from the kitchen. It was a quaint apartment,  not too large yet not small, huddled in a side of the city that wasn’t too expensive yet didn’t lack anything too important. They had been able to afford it with their parents’ inheritance; God knew Veritas wouldn’t allow his sister, or himself, to live somewhere dangerous or hideous, so he paid for it in full. 

He walked into the lobby and shed his long coat, the deep blue wool almost black as it was drenched. He hung it on the perch near the entrance, loosing his tie with one hand and adjusting the shoulders of his dress shirt so it sat more comfortably on his figure. The coat had kept most of the rain away, yet he was still a little cold. He left his manuscript on the living room’s table and walked towards the kitchen, where the light was coming from. A song was playing on the radio, a jazz song that filled the apartment in a comfortable, familiar atmosphere. The singer’s voice was especially beautiful. 

Inside the kitchen, Pela was at the small wooden table in the center, scribbling something on her notebook. She had a focused expression on her face, as she seemed to find an answer to an unspoken question. Books were piled on the side, and her eraser had fallen at some point, not that she had noticed. She was still wearing her school uniform, and her long hair, the same color as Ratio’s, fell over her shoulders and down her back. The kitchen’s light was reflected in her glasses, and behind her, the city could be seen through their small window. 

“I’m back,” He called, as he walked into the room. Pela raised her head, and a smile spread over her features. 

“Your hair drenched,” She huffed, dropping her pencil for a moment. “You got caught in the rain?”

Veritas smiled back, rolling up the sleeves of his shirt up to his elbows and sorting through the kitchen’s cabinets. He took a grab of several ingredients, before carefully setting them on the counter and finding each utensil he knew he was going to need with expert hands. He always kept them in neat order, in a way it was easy to find them again when needed. He turned to Pela briefly, pointing with his chin towards her schoolwork. 

“How’s that going?” 

Pela shrugged, pushing up her round glasses before he turned back again towards his work, cutting down the vegetables in neat little circles, and pushing them aside. 

“I’m almost finished with it. There was only one problem I was intending to ask you about,” He heard the sound of the chair being pushed back, and the steps of her prim shoes over the tiled floor as she headed towards him. When he noticed that she was about to turn on the stove he stopped her. 

“I’ll take care of that. Grab me the pot, if you may” 

“Are you making soup?” She asked after, reaching down into the cupboard. “I mean, I’m not complaining but—” 

“I’m not only making soup, don’t get any concerns. I’ll help you with the problem after dinner,” After she’d put the pot over the designated spot, he started preparing the chicken broth. She settled next to him, taking care of the vegetables, and their elbows brushed silently as they worked.

The song was still playing, and Veritas sighed contently, basking in the ambiance. 

“She’s good,” He commented, after a bit.

Neither he or Pela minded sharing the quiet, yet sometimes he believed that maybe she was one of the few people he didn’t mind having endless conversations with, even though they were never certainly never endless.

Pela smiled up at him, her work momentarily forgotten.

“Yes! She really is. Some are even calling her the best voice of the century” 

“That’s quite the statement. What’s her name?” 

“Robin Oak. Did you know she started out by singing in a church?” 

“I had no idea” 

Pela carefully moved her schoolwork to the side before they sat down to eat. Together they set up the small table, all the while the radio went on. The voice of this Miss Oak enveloped them in a comfortable ambiance. Outside, it was still raining, yet it had turned much softer, the drizzle trickling against the glass of their window in quiet pathways.

“How was your day?” He asked, taking a spoonful of soup. He’d added some spices and some bits of steak, besides a various assortment of condiments. Despite her earlier commentary, Pela seemed to be enjoying it dearly, as she was barely breathing between each spoonful and the next. 

“The soup they serve us at school is so bland, yetc this isn’t close to it at all” 

“It was mom’s recipe, with a few personal adjustments I’ve added over the years. I can teach it to you, if you want” 

“No, I’ll just have to keep coming back,” Pela reached for a napkin. “My day was good! School was easy enough, and Lynx and I went to the park after. We found the fledgling we rescued some months back, by the way. It’s doing good” 

“Are you sure it was the same? Was it flying fine?” 

“Yes, I’m positive. It sported the same pattern under the wings,” She leaned forwards over her plate, a small smile on her face. “And your manuscript? Are they taking it? I hope you remember I called dibs on the first copy” 

She saw it on his expression before he said anything. She fell back on her seat, her expression tainted by sadness.

“No way. How could they not take it?” 

“It’s a very conceptual work, vanguardist in its own way. It would be a risk for their publishing house, you’re  surely aware of that much,” He commented, stirring his soup absentmindedly, not taking another sip.

“It’s still not a valid reason. It has potential, you just need to finish it, maybe flesh it out a little bit more”  

Veritas raised an eyebrow, half a smile on his lips as he finally raised his spoon. 

“What would I do without my personal literary critic?”

Pela pursed her lips. The genuine sadness he saw in her eyes sparked a flick of concern inside of him. 

“I’m serious, Veritas. You—” She bit her lip, looking down at the soup, and then to the drizzle hitting against the window. “It’s just you have not looked up to something so much in a while” 

Veritas didn’t know what to say to that. They were silent for a moment. 

His eyes flicked down. His gaze ran over the shapes of the vegetables in the broth, and the smell brought him back to a time where he and his mother used to cook dinner. He closes his eyes for a moment, and the smell is almost the same.

“I’ll see what I can do about it,” He said, finally. Pela’s smile looked so much like their mother’s, but it also held something that was uniquely hers, and hers alone. “I promise. Now, could you show me the problem you needed my assistance with?” 

—

Only an absolute fool would claim to know everything. Veritas himself knew that there were plenty of things he did not know or understand. What he did know, however, was how much he despised using the public phone. 

It was a busy day the next morning, as he walked Pela to school. Afterwards, he stood by the telephone booth right in front of the drugstore. It wasn’t the best place to have a quiet, private conversation, as the street right next to it was always jammed with cars that hour of the day, all of them trying to get somewhere faster than the others, and then the city was converted into a constant flux, alive and brimming with heat and never-ending movement. Nevertheless, it was the quickest route from Pela’s school to the university he taught in; it also conveniently had a telephone.

“Come on, you idiot,” He muttered under his breath, waiting for the call to connect.

It wouldn’t be the first time that self-destructive moron had the gall to leave him hanging, until he had no choice but to leave in the utmost hurry, as he couldn’t afford to be late to class, and he refused to waste his time on that senseless trip later when he might not even pick up even then.

The call connected.

“You’re calling Grove University. What can we do for you?” 

He pinched the bridge of his nose. 

“Anaxagoras” 

“Oh, it’s you,” He did not sound surprised in the least because of course, this call wasn’t an isolated incident. Veritas procured to call every single Friday, exactly at the same hour, every single week. He would’ve done it even if Acheron’s will hadn’t instructed him to do so. Anaxa, on his part, had never seemed to believe it. 

“Don’t you dare act as if you were not expecting me, brother” 

“What should I say, Veritas? Maybe it wasn’t you. You never truly know, do you? Could’ve been anyone” 

“Why else would you be wasting your time near a telephone?” 

Anaxa laughed. His laugh never sounded happy really, boastful, would be a more precise word to describe it. It had an edge of bitterness and an all-knowing edge that had always irked Veritas when they were children, no matter how much old ladies would tell them how they were the most similar out of all their mother’s kids. It concerned him nevertheless, how increasingly hollow that same laugh became with the passing of the years.

How much, until it was no longer familiar? Until they were no longer the brothers that used to be so similar to each other? Old ladies did use to exacerbate everything, nevertheless. On principle they couldn’t be more different.

“Are you…” He collected himself, taking a deep breath. Anaxa had always been an expert at riling people up, and he’d always enjoyed annoying him specifically. “Are you alright?” 

“Dearly beloved brother, don’t dare act like you care” 

“For God’s sake, Anaxa—” 

“Spare me of the pleasantries, and don’t call me Anaxa”

“You didn’t even let me finish you absolute…”

He exhaled a long breath, swiping some hair out of his face. His eyes got caught up on a small little bird on the sidewalk, jumping and chirping. It flew away when the next car passed, lost in the trees that lined the streets. He envied his brother at times, living in the countryside and doing whatever it was that he did with his life. He never really told him anything about his life anymore. Every time, Veritas found himself pushing away the persisting thought that it wouldn’t be the same way, if it was Acheron instead of him calling Anaxa on this side of the line. 

But Acheron was not here. He was. 

“I sent you this month’s share earlier this week. You should get it soon enough. Are you doing alright? Do you need any more?” 

On the other end of the line, Anaxa scoffed quietly. 

“You’d send more if I asked for it?” 

“Of course. I’d see what I could do. You know that” 

Anaxa clicked his tongue. How much time had passed since Veritas had last heard his voice undistorted by the connection of a telephone line, he was not entirely sure. He hadn’t shown up for two of Pela’s birthdays. Veritas didn’t make a habit of celebrating his anymore, but still, there was even a time when Anaxa just visited without a reason.

“Don’t worry that hard-head over it any more than you need to, dear brother. I’ve no need for it, and at the end of the day you’re not only responsible for yourself alone. I have my own salary, you do have that in mind?” 

The way he said it was undeniably condescending, yet underneath the snark Veritas caught a whiff of something genuine. It would be hopeful to call it caring, yet it caused him to sigh once more. 

“I do, and yet, you have always given me enough reasons to be concerned” 

Silence befell them, after that. It wasn’t one of their comfortable silences, those they shared when they were kids and Anaxa enjoyed reading Veritas’s poetry, when they exchanged books every now and then to discuss them later. Now, everything was heavier, darker, unfamiliar. Sometimes, Veritas wondered if the blood they shared was the only thing he still knew about his younger brother. 

“You should get out more, Veritas,” Anaxagoras said, eventually. “Are you still writing?” 

“Yes, but it’s not bearing much success precisely” 

“My only advice if for you to keep at it” 

With that, he hung up. He always did.

For a few seconds, he was left listening to the echoes of the deadline. He then cursed under his breath, slamming the phone back in place and grabbing his suitcase before starting to walk down the street, leaving the telephone  booth behind. He should just stop sending money, see if that fool would say please or thank you for a change. 

—

“Smile for the photo, Veritas,” 

His mother’s gramophone was on. She loved music, in a way that was simply hers. The piece that was playing he recognized it as one of Debussy’s. Sometimes. Soft, golden sunlight was streaming through the white curtains, embroidered with yellow flowers. They shook gently, with the breeze from outside.  

The cameraman stood behind the complex piece of machinery that was the camera. They all sat very still. Acheron to his right, wearing a deep blue dress, whereas he and Anaxagoras stood in fancy, small suits with their chins lifted high, the three of them sitting by the longest sofa. None of the three siblings were smiling. 

He heard his mother sigh. Behind the camera man, on the other side of the room, their father was reading the paper, sitting on his favorite sofa, the one that was of a deep green. His glasses were posed over his eyes, and his smiles were as rare as those of his children. 

“Leave them be, love. That’s the way they are, " he said, not looking up from the paper. 

“They’re so much like you,” She muttered. “Lord, please gift me a child that smiles”

“There is just no reason to do so,” Anaxagoras complained loudly, the way he always expressed his ideas, which he always believed to be correct. It bothered Veritas that oftentimes he agreed with what he had to say. “Why should we?” 

“It’s for the memento, I suppose,” Acheron muttered from the other side. 

It’s not that none of them ever smiled, Veritas did so regularly, but he couldn’t simply muster one just because he was told to do so. His mother knelt in front of him. She had his eyes, the color of the dawn, even though the slim, elegant shape of her face had been inherited by Anaxa. Her smile, unlike theirs, was natural and easy, warm, like the embroidery of the house’s curtains. She pinched Veritas’s cheeks, eliciting a frown out of him. She cooed. 

“Come on, baby. You’ve got such a pretty smile” 

“It’s stupid to smile just because,” he muttered, turning to Acheron for help, yet she was not looking at him, too focused on her small, purple shoes. “Why don’t you force Anaxa instead?” 

His mother tutted, shaking her head. Her hand came to cup Anaxagoras’s cheek, who tried to escape her grasp, as if he was an irritated cat.

“Oh, I have long since given up on your brother” 

“I can smile, mom”

“To mock others, Anaxagoras” 

“Like Veritas doesn’t do the exact same thing!” 

His mother’s laugh was always so warm. She turned to him, and cupped his cheek with her other hand, caressing the skin under his eye. 

“Try to smile, boys. You too, Acheron. You, my girl, have the sweetest smile” 

Acheron turned to her, surprised, before looking away again. 

Later that day, by the time evening was falling, Veritas sat at the kitchen table, writing on the leather notebook his father had gifted him, as his mother hummed silently to the tune of the song rolling on the gramophone. She was preparing dinner. It was that time of year where the sun set late, and the colors of gold and orange filled the room in a composition of spilled light.

At some point, when words were no longer coming to him, he looked up from his notebook and watched her move around the space. Her long hands fished for utensils with long-practiced expertise, their gracefulness the one of an artist. He quietly stood up, shoving the chair aside, and walked to her side. Despite his youth, he was taller than most children his age. 

“Mother,” He asked. “Can I help you with anything?”

He wondered why none of them had ever inherited his mother’s grin. She caressed his wavy locks, settling her hand on the top of his hair. 

“That’s precisely why I wanted you to smile,” She murmured. “You, Veritas, are very kind. Come on. I’ll show you how to prepare anything, so one day you can make a beautiful lady very happy”

He huffed, irritated, but still followed along as she handed him some of the vegetables she needed him to cut. Be careful with your hands.

“Why would I want to?”

His mother laughed. Her skin was much tanner than their father’s, of a pretty, bronze color that reminded Veritas of a quiet sunset. He, himself, was proud of being the only one of his siblings to inherit the same flesh, as they looked more like their father, whose skin was more of an olive hue, from the mediterranean. In everything else, Veritas looked just like his father, so he enjoyed this one, small thing he owed her.

Her eyes crinkled when she smiled.

“You’ll understand when you’re older”

“Mother…”

“Yes, love?”

“Why did you hire that man to take a photo of us? Isn’t it expensive?” 

“Oh that. Well” She caressed his hair again, undoing the knots. He didn’t shake her off. “It’s as your sister said, it’s a memento. It’s important to remember such things, for when you’re older, and you can look back on it and wonder why you and your siblings never managed to smile when they were told” 

“Very funny” 

They fell quiet, but it was the kind that was familiar, born out of shared trust. Outside, he could hear the murmur of the wind, threading through the tall, golden grass. He loved how quiet it always was, by the countryside. He could just close his eyes, and listen to the melodies of silence. Maybe that was what his mother meant, but he still could not grasp it completely, so he kept quiet.

—

From around the time he was still studying, he happened to cross paths with a very distinctive woman, one of those who ate up the men that dared and knew how to speak to delude and convince the self-proclaimed most intelligent. He had never truly trusted her, even when her charms had no effect on a man of his nature, but she understood of arts and philosophy, so oftentimes, back then, she was one of the few he could rely on for a decent conversation. 

“So I heard the editorial you wanted to publish with rejected your manuscript, correct?” She said over the phone line, a few days later. 

“Not to be impolite, miss Bonajade, but how did you come across such information?” 

“You know better than to ask me questions that are unimportant, dear. Those people at Nous’s are never truly worth the effort, you’ve been trying to get them to read you for years and it’s been anything but successful. This isn’t your fault really, they are such stuck-ups… I wish to take a read, if you wouldn’t mind too much. I deeply loved the ones you showed me in previous years” 

He sighed deeply. Business with Jade was always like making a deal with a snake. It could bite you, it could not. It was true that last time he’d come out unscathed, and she had helped him a couple of times in the past, nothing with a cost he couldn’t easily pay. Still, he was still waiting on the day she called for those favors back with something he wasn’t willing to give her, and had no other choice but to relent. He still had much to lose.

“Do tell, what is it that you have in mind?” He gave in, finally. Over the line, Jade sounded pleasantly thrilled, yet not in a way that made it obvious. She was never quite a cheery person. 

“Come to my office, tomorrow, and we’ll share some coffee over it, if you’d be so kind. Are you alright with that arrangement?” 

Which was how he found himself in front of an IPC office building the next day. It was a large building, wide rather than tall though it still was considerably towering, and with a constant flux of people entering and exiting the place, all of them fancily dressed and heading somewhere with assured confidence. That day, the multiple windows reflected the clear colored sky, the lazy white clouds. Veritas adjusted his long coat, making sure everything was in order, before he slid through the spinning doors into the wide lobby. 

The assistant at the front desk smiled up at him once he made his way to her. He remained expressionless, but nodded politely in her direction.  

“Do you have an appointment?” 

“With miss Bonajade, if you’d be so kind” 

“Go on. She’s been expecting you” 

“Thank you for your time” 

He walked up the stairs, his eyes straying over the employees at the IPC. He was aware that they were an important business organization, and that their work correlated somewhat to politics and economics, but he had always kept himself a step away, so he wasn’t quite sure. 

All of them wore identical suits, with a red tie underneath. He, as he walked up the stairs to the higher floors, noticed himself a black sheep in the sea of near-identical people, with his elegant, long indigo trench coat with golden laurel embroidery, the black suit underneath over his usual white dress shirt. His manuscript was securely stored on a black, leather suitcase, as to not endanger it like last time. 

As he climbed up the floors, to him came the common noises of a regular office, unintelligible conversations passing by like murmurs, the click and song of typewriters, the shuffling of fancy shoes. In the distance, someone was playing music somewhere, a slow, jazzy tune that Veritas did not recognize. 

When he knocked on the door to Jade’s office, he heard the murmurs of a conversation behind the closed gate. Someone, a man, let out a laugh that sounded somewhat familiar. Another moment went by before he heard Jade’s voice. 

“Come on in, dear” 

He pushed the door open, hand still on the golden knob. It was not the first time he was here, and every time he was starkly hit by how wide Jade’s office was. The windows on the back invited in the light from the slow autumn afternoon, and the canal on the other side of Penacony could be spotted in the distance, as the room was on the second to last floor. The streets were far behind, and you could spot the passing of cars, listen to their distant cries. The curtains were made of silk, white and long, and the walls were covered with a myriad of different things; mementos from her many travels, various trinkets and quite strange souvenirs, such as the small skeleton of a small animal perched in front of a framed photo of someone he did not quite recognize.

There was more than one table in her office, besides the one she usually liked to do her work in. That day, on one of the tables covered in documents, books and the blueprints for something, was leaning a man Veritas surprisingly  recognized. Kaleidoscopic eyes turned to him lazily, and the stranger gave him a sharp smile as welcome. 

“Hello, Mr. Ratio,” He said, with that voice Veritas could so clearly remember.

There was something he wasn’t willing to admit. Ever since that day under the drizzle, he’d been dreaming with that stranger, with the face he’d only caught in the last instant, with the shape of his lean shoulders covered in the elegant coat embroidered in gold and emerald threads, with the shape of his form getting distant. He was always there in the strangest of places. He was there in his childhood home, looking out the window to the fields Veritas hadn’t seen in a long time, next to the curtains embroidered with yellow flowers. Sometimes he was in the living room of Veritas’s apartment, next to the radio, listening to Robin’s song as he stared into the fire with a deeply melancholic frown. At times he was in the back of a bookstore, his form just an insinuation in the back of a dream long forgotten.

Every time, Veritas would ask, what’s your name? So the man he’d met under the storm would cease being a stranger. And every time, he would never get an answer. 

“My name is Aventurine of the Strategic Investment Department,” He said, offering him a hand covered in one black, leather glove, fingers adorned in all sorts of glistening rings. His smile was just the same, mocking, charming, and ever-so dishonest. “I believe we were not properly introduced last time” 

Veritas didn’t grab the hand offered. He stared down at him, frowned, and turned to Jade, who was sitting on her usual, black leather seat. Her smile was just the same. 

“Oh, don’t let him scare you. When I mentioned you to him a few days ago, he mentioned to me that you two had already been introduced” Jade said, leaning over her hand. “Hello to you too, Veritas” 

He turned to Aventurine once more. The man was wearing a rather flamboyant coat, green and lined in thick, white fur. Under it, he wore a white dress shirt, the first buttons undone, with black suspenders and golden peacock feathers embroidered from the collar to the bottom in a style that was blatantly Art Deco. When he tilted his head to the side in a way his long, golden hair fell over his elegant neck, still holding his hand in offer, Veritas noticed that he still wore the same, green earring as last time. It sported the same colors as a peacock’s feather.

He took his hand, finally, and shook it. He had a surprisingly strong grip. 

“I’ll leave you two to catch up now,” There was something different, in the way he spoke now than the time during their first meeting. The grin he sent in his direction was nothing less than captivating, but something underneath seemed a tad bit dangerous. Maybe not towards him, precisely. It simply was something that was there. “I still wish to read something of yours, eventually” 

“I’ll consider it,” He said, at a lack of anything else to say. Aventurine sent one last look in his direction, before closing the door behind him with a click. 

Veritas stood before Jade, then. She smiled. 

“Take a seat, dear. You did bring it with you?” 

“Yes. Here it is” He put the suitcase over the table and opened it, revealing the manuscript inside.

He noticed Jade observing him carefully as he took the pages in his hands and sat on one of the leather chairs, setting his work on the table, and pushing the suitcase aside. Once he was done, he quietly offered them to her. Each page, Jade took with a special kind of care she reserved for any form of art, and she started reading. 

Veritas grabbed a book of his own, to read while she finished. An assistant of hers brought them coffee, of which he only took one sip. He had never been much of a fan, despite most assumptions that he was. 

“It’s not finished,” Jade said, eventually. 

Veritas set his book down. The coffee had gotten cold. 

“Your observation skills remain as sharp as ever” 

“Don’t. Why haven’t you given it a conclusion?” 

“I have to admit that I lost motivation, after the last rejection. Before that, I couldn’t shake the feeling that something important was missing” 

“You’re sometimes too rational, Veritas, I think that’s the problem with this one,” Jade took a sip of her own coffee, and wrinkled her nose at the temperature, setting it back down once more. “You've got the talent, and in the moment when you explore the deepest corners of yourself you uncover a deeply beautiful treasure. It is vanguardist. And yet, at times, especially at the end, I get the feeling that you were too… crammed inside your head. You are a rational man, Veritas, but you’re also deeply profound, you’ve always been, which is one of the reasons I like you.  You are not a simple, rigid man, but a true philosopher. Where is that profundity?” 

Veritas smiled, if only a bit bitterly. 

“The muses seem to have abandoned me” 

Jade sighed, setting the work down in front of her, on the table. 

“I’ll tell you something, in honor of our long-standing friendship,”

He raised an eyebrow. 

“Friendship?” 

“Long standing business-association, whatever term is to your utmost liking,” Jade reached for something underneath her office table, and Veritas felt a spark of surprise as she casually set a bottle of whiskey, and two glasses with rich decorations over the glass.

She smiled. “Tell me, Ratio, what’s your stance on speakeasies?” 

“I don’t frequent them,” He confessed, staring at the golden liquid she poured into the glasses. “I assume you didn’t acquire this bottle by any legal means” 

“Oh please. You, dear, of all people, shouldn’t concern yourself over legality. What would that make of you?” She tutted.

“I—” He bristled, his hands balling into fists, before he silently scolded himself for his reaction, as he should’ve expected of Jade to win that one by no clean means.

She slid him a glass, and he stared at it as if it was poison.

“There’s this speakeasy the IPC is trying to own, downtown. Truly a beautiful place, if you ask me. It’s frequented by all sorts of people, especially artists, writers, intellectuals of all sorts. You might find some decent inspiration there. I suggest you try it” 

She reached from inside her coat and handed him what looked like a poker card, except it had the illustration of a sinuous snake in the middle, surrounded by rose thorns. Whatever it was made with, it glistened as if it was gold when put under the light. On the other side, it was fully matte black, except for a small direction written in golden cursive.

He took it between two fingers. Something in the enigmatic card made him think of the stranger he’d met under the rain— Aventurine. Was this what it was like? To search for a muse, found and lost in what was only a singular instant.

“What’s this?” 

“An invitation card. They don’t let in just anyone, you know?” 

—

By the time he was leaving, with the card tucked in the pocket of his long coat and his manuscript safely kept inside his suitcase, he caught eye of Aventurine again. 

His office was on the same floor as Jade’s, and the door slightly ajar. Veritas didn’t know what drove him to approach, softly grabbing the door knob and peeking inside. 

Aventurine’s office was large, just as Jade’s. The large windows were on the right, and the walls were of a deep,  rich golden brown, covered in geometric patterns in the shapes of one could call fans, or maybe peacock feathers.

What caught his attention, however, was how on the large wall opposite of the door was a frankly impressive mural of a peacock, painted in fine, golden lines, and in clear, distinctive Art Deco style. The bird spread over the whole wall, its feathers a mandala of golden, beautiful lines and stylized forms. Truly a beautiful work of le style moderne.

In the center of the room, there was a large, mahogany table, which was littered with a myriad of things, among them several poker cards, spread over in absolute disarray. Near the walls, there were elongated couches of black, expensive leather, and on the sides of the room there were hung posters and pictures, most of them advertisements, drawn in floaty, deco styles. Some paintings, Veritas recognized, and somehow he deeply doubted they were replicas.

Aventurine was giving his back to the door, his coat discarded over a chair, leaving him only in his dress shirt and suspenders underneath. With it, he was imposing; without it, his body seemed more slender, sinuous. He was hunched over something in front of him, obscured from view, with his hands leaning heavily on the table’s surface. Next to his fingers, besides the spilled cards, laid a half empty glass of whiskey and a revolver.

The smell of smoke threaded through the air, familiar from before Veritas decided to abandon it.

Aventurine didn’t turn at first, even though the door hadn’t managed to keep silent when he’d pushed it open. At first, Veritas thought he had not heard him, and he suddenly felt like an intruder. Here, in this sole picture, was painted the shape of a world that was foreign to him, dangerous and distant, yet something about the man in the middle of it intrigued him in a way he couldn’t understand. He contemplated taking a couple of steps backwards, never coming back, leaving before he was in too deep, but then he heard his voice. 

“Ostentatious isn’t it?” Aventurine said, not turning around. One of his hands was deftly holding a lit cigarette between two fingers, his palm against the edge of the table. His other hand went to something in front of him, running over the surface of what seemed like a book. “But I like it, I’ll have to admit” 

“It’s certainly flamboyant. Not unlike what I’ve seen of yourself” 

“Hm” Aventurine turned, finally. Those kaleidoscopic eyes once again. They gazed at him, and there were so many things he could delve into, just staring at those eyes, and yet none. An enigma, giving enough to wonder but not enough to know. “I didn’t think you’d come looking for me” 

“The door was slightly ajar and I was curious,” He said. A confession. His gaze slid over the half-drank glass of whiskey. What was the IPC, really? “I ponder, nevertheless, why didn’t you offer your name during our first meeting?” 

Aventurine turned completely now, facing him, though still leaning on the table. His smile had an edge of taunting. 

“Well, I didn’t think we’d meet again, my dear writer friend. What use would it have?” 

They were quiet for a moment. They did not know each other enough to strike conversation, nor for the silence to be comfortable. Veritas thought himself a fool at that very moment. 

“Well, I think it would be most convenient if I took my leave” 

Aventurine, despite the silence, seemed deeply amused at his awkwardness. He grabbed one of the spilled cards, and walked until he was right in front of him. 

“Back when we met you said that a writer does not really become a writer until someone reads his words,” He offered him the card, with a grin. “Why don’t you become a writer tonight and read something to me?” 

The same card he’d now been offered twice, except that Aventurine’s had a golden spade in the middle, making it look like an actual poker card. At some angles, the gold looked almost black, and the flowers that surrounded it looked rather vicious. It didn’t seem like something that should belong with him, with Veritas. It seemed otherworldly, a key to a world he knew about yet had not yet dared trespass. Piece by piece, he felt himself walking further into a surrealist work of fiction. The irrationality of the dreamlike terrified him, yet maybe, that was the thing his words were missing.

“And some friends, if that’d be alright with you” Aventurine continued. “Come as fancy as you’d like. You simply have to show up” 

“And carelessly humiliate myself in front of all of you, I assume” 

Aventurine perked a blond eyebrow. 

“It’s a bet, for you. Isn’t it fun?” 

Veritas sighed, despite himself, and grabbed the card, without mentioning anything about the other he already had. Aventurine seemed pleased at this, smiling up at him contently, before turning on his heel again and returning to his table. 

“Well, Ratio” Ratio had always been terrible when it came to reading people, but even he could recognize that the gesture he made with his hand was clearly a dismissal. “I hope you like jazz”

What, in the name of everything that is sacred, is the IPC?

Chapter Text

The house by the countryside was grand. It had been thanks to their father’s job which had allowed them to buy it, once Veritas was born. He was the first of his siblings to be born on the countryside, as Acheron had been conceived in the city, back when their parents owned an apartment somewhere in Penacony.

The house was a quite far from the main community, which laid up a road surrounded by fields that seemed to stretch for all eternity under an indifferent sky, a few stray, imposing trees standing guard here and there. 

When Acheron was eleven and Veritas nine, they climbed a tree so tall that he could see the whole province, stretching all the way to the horizon up until the low chain of mountains. Yellow wheat fields and trees laid as far as he could see, and the sky received him like a world that for him was unknown yet no less gentle in its uncertainty. With one tiny hand he’d cling to the rough bark, and with the other he’d try to reach for the impassive blue.

As they were climbing down a branch snapped in two, provoking his fall from several feet down into the ground. It was a miracle that the only consequence was a broken arm, as the doctors had said. Acheron felt guilty for weeks. She was by far the most daring out of the three siblings, though she and Veritas were both equally athletic. Anaxa had never cared much for anything that wasn’t reading, a passion both brothers shared equally. At the end of the day he had something to share with both of them.

The walk to school was long, an odyssey of sorts through the long road into the main town. Acheron used to challenge him to races, to see who could make it first, and every time they ended up having to return for Anaxa, who stayed behind, distracted with a bug or something else that caught his interest. Sometimes he’d ask Veritas for something he was curious about and he would fill him in on whatever it was that he wanted to know. The headmaster at the local university, the Grove, used to comment whenever she saw them that they’d both grow up to study with her in her college without issue. Every time, Veritas raised his chin with pride. 

There was a family that lived close by, a walk worth a few minutes through a road that was almost hidden through the fields. Anaxa was always excited to go see them, because they lived in a ranch and owned several animals; horses that, back then, seemed enormous, goats that blared shamelessly for attention, sheep whose pelts weren’t as soft to the touch as they seemed, and a flock of chickens that were allowed to roam free wherever they wished for. Personally, Veritas deeply disliked the smell. 

Unlike his little brother, he profoundly despised the times their parents took them to see the family, not only because it was awfully crowded and noisy–it was quite the huge family—, but also because of their youngest, who was around Veritas’s age, had taken a liking to him, and he always forced him to tag along in his crazy adventures, forcing him to ride a horse, to recklessly venture in the tall grasses looking for grasshoppers and coyotes, or making him help with milking the cows, which was unfairly terrifying with how huge the animals were in comparison to him at his young age.

He didn’t find out until he was older that, the reason his parents insisted on going to visit them and brought them food, not to mention several useful gifts they couldn’t get easily on their own, was not because of classic, polite neighbor familiarity, but because back then they were the only people in the community besides them who weren’t white. While Ratio’s family was one of immigrants, the Grays descended from the native Americans who were once almost brutally decimated by the British colonizers.

At some point, they got into a lot of trouble and were forced to leave. Veritas never saw them again. 

A couple of years later, when he was fifteen years old, he was recalling his memories of them during a casual conversation with Acheron, as they were both sitting in the living room of their house, him, with his notebook in-between his hands, and her, trying to turn the gramophone on as she balanced Pela on her lap. Little Pela was playing with Acheron’s hair, which was almost the same color as hers. The three of them looked very similar; Anaxa was the only one who looked more like their mother. 

“I’d never seen something like it,” He commented, running his fingers over the words he’d written over the pages of his notebook. His fingertips were stained by deep, blue ink. “Raising a family with your best friend, I mean. It was quite an unusual system”

Acheron gave him an odd look. 

“Nick and Gray weren’t friends, Veritas” 

He blinked. It was back when he wore glasses. 

“They weren’t? I seem to recall they were really close” 

“Of course they were. They were together, like mom and dad are” 

“They were? Why didn’t they ever say anything?” 

“We’ve discussed this already. You like Oscar Wilde, right? I mean you must know what happened to him” 

As every single time the topic was breached, his fingers froze where they were. He felt his throat clog, and a sudden, unexpected dizziness reached at his usually clear mind. 

“How do you know I like Oscar Wilde at all?” He tried, foolishly.

Acheron huffed. 

“You fell asleep reading him the other day. I had to tuck you in, and when I went to leave the book in its place, I found many more. I have never read him, but I’ve heard he’s a good writer” She arched an eyebrow. Pela’s small hands were reaching for her face. 

“Acheron!”

It was the second word she’d learnt to say. She possessed this sort of coy radiance that Veritas didn’t think he ever had as a child. His mother always said he was quite the rude baby, just like Anaxa. Acheron had been much more quiet, and both she and Veritas took longer than normal to start talking. 

“What is it to you? You’re usually the first to force into me whatever it is that interests you” 

“You’re reading too much into it” 

Those were the last of the good days. 

—

The direction he was given led him a small bookstore in a particularly nice part of the city, which surprised him.

He’d expected the address to lead him somewhere into the lower neighborhoods, where he supposed speakeasies were hidden from the Prohibition agents, not that he particularly held much knowledge on the topic of illicit hidden locals. Prohibition had taken many things away, searching to bring a new era of prosperity to the population of Penacony.

What Veritas thought they had failed to bring into account was how forbidding people to do something oftentimes, and almost every time, caused for them to do the same thing in a different, more dangerous way, in a way that went unseen from the eyes of the law, hidden in the veil of utmost penumbra. Oftentimes, this solution was the cause for more blood than it ever was necessary to spill.

Veritas kept thinking of it, as he boarded the trolley and traveled through the labyrinth of the city’s streets as the night fell over the metropolis. Every time, he found once more why it had been idiotic to follow through, and every time, he just kept walking. Was it a sick form of curiosity? He’d always been weak to the high of the search, looking for an answer to something unknown, yet it had never been something such as this, and never at the cost of his ethics, even though he didn’t consider this counted as breaching his morals. Maybe, he hoped, Jade would be correct, and he’d find something worthwhile.

The bookstore’s name was the Reverie. It was huddled between two large buildings that largely overpowered it in size, and the only thing that stood out was its interesting architectural design, which was clearly inspired by the Art Deco styles that were more and more popular by the passing of the years. It reminded Veritas of the decoration in Aventurine’s room, which eventually led him to think of the man himself. The windows were obscured, yet the sign on the entrance claimed they were open, and soft, golden light seeped from under the curtains, basking the shadowy street in a modest sort of radiance.

He pushed the small door and stepped into inside.

The interior of the establishment had the appearance of a particularly large bookstore, with two floors and filled with the scent of paper, incense, and something a little bit different that Veritas could not quite pinpoint. There was nothing out of the ordinary, unless you counted the unnatural neatness of the books as something strange. Veritas observed the piles of books; they were all in alphabetical order, no matter if they were positioned as towers in the floor, and even those stood perfectly straight. On the shelves, all books were ordered by sizes, strict alphabetical order, and color, apparently, which struck him as obsessive. He didn’t think it was even possible to follow those three criteria at the same time.

“Hello, sir. Can I assist you with anything?” The man behind the counter said.

Veritas turned to him, and he found himself meeting an amber gaze that watched him with clever caution.

He took a look at the man behind the counter. He was rather handsome, possessing amber eyes that seemed rather insightful. His hair was long, longer than Veritas’s, and it fell around his shoulders in light curls that seemed almost gray. He was wearing a white dress shirt, buttoned to the top, and with suspenders. He was writing something on a notebook in front of him, and Veritas peered curiously at the words scribbled in the paper.

“I have an invitation,”

The man raised one gray eyebrow.

“Oh? From who?”

He had two cards to choose from. His decision had to be quick, so he just grabbed one and offered it for him to observe.

“Spades,” He said. He’d picked Aventurine’s card.

To his shock, the man’s expression turned sour, and he sighed with noticeable annoyance.

“Oh, so you’re one of his… what did you say your name was?”

What’s that about? “Veritas Ratio”

The stranger’s expression changed once more, this time with soft surprise. Then, a smile bloomed on his lips. Veritas noticed that he had a small, silver cross hanging from the collar around his neck.

“Oh, you’re not— hm. Pleasure to have you here tonight, Mr. Ratio. I’ve heard quite a lot about you in the past day, I must admit,” The man stood up, leading him to the back of the bookstore through the piles of books, until they got to the bookshelves on the back. “Here”

“That’s a bookshelf” He pointed with a raised eyebrow.

The stranger smiled. There was a certain smugness to his expression that was rather wicked. Otherwise, the profoundness in his amber eyes carried a certain kind of melancholy.

“You seem astute, I’ll give you that,” He commented with lighthearted snark, before turning and clicking something on the side of the bookshelf.

Then, he pushed it aside, as it didn’t actually seem to be very heavy, despite its appearance. The bookshelf slid to reveal, behind its imposing threshold, a small corridor that seemed to lead downwards. At the other end was a quaint door. It was quite the elegant show of craftsmanship, painted in gold and adorned with the engraving of a blooming flower. You could listen to the muffled sounds of a soft jazz ballad, accompanied with a familiar smell of smoke. The shuffling of steps, distant laughter and intelligible conversations, the clinking of glasses.

A whole different world laid behind that door, and the excitement in his chest mixed with a rational uneasiness.

He stepped forwards, as the stranger shut the bookshelf back into place behind him. The stranger then headed towards the door, opening it for him to step into what was beyond.

The man smiled, gently.

“Welcome to the true Reverie, Veritas Ratio”

The place Veritas walked into was nothing like the unremarkable bookshop. Quite the contrary, really. Aventurine had called his office ostentatious, but this— this was grand.

There were several round tables with their respective four or three velvety couches, accommodated for the visitors to reunite, converse and watch the spectacle, yet still leaving space in the middle of the place for some dancing. There were a couple of game tables, here and there. Some corners were meant for more intimate audiences, others for those who wanted to enjoy the fun of the buzzing nightlife. Richly decorated columns held the tall ceiling, golden light glistening where the ambiental shadows could not reach.

The drink counter was large as well, and behind stood a man who looked around his forties serving the drinks and cleaning empty glasses with a white rag. His expression made it seem as if he’d be anywhere rather than here if he had a semblance of a choice. The whole place was elegantly decorated, the design mostly sporting figures and shapes from Art Deco, but still some surprising though little, influence from Art Nouveau, with the swirly lamps that gave away to dim, golden light. And despite its radiance, it still held a certain air of intimacy, what with the low, warm lights and the corners casted in shadow, with the adjacent, small rooms shrouded in darkness and the red, velvet curtains around the place, with enough places for the discreet to lounge around and breathe.

The main point of focus was probably the large scenario on the other side of the room. The atrium spread from side to side, and it was illuminated in gold and framed by red velvet curtains, beautifully wrapped in creases, as they fell like waves to the floor. The scenario’s floor was made of clear wood, and on it already stood a band, playing a jazz performance like none other Veritas had seen before, and at their lead, with the microphone carefully, and gently, held between her hands as if was a bird, stood a woman he’d only seen on the vinyls Pela sometimes listened to.

She had a peculiar long, cascading mane of light-colored curly hair that fell all the way to the small of her back, rich, deep brown skin and turquoise eyes that held a profound gaze, which gave away a keen intelligence. She wore a small coat lined in fur over a loose, white blouse, a long pleated skirt, and pearl earrings that hung from her ears, besides a small, cloche hat adorned with flowers. Her voice was familiar, as she sang a nostalgic, yet rather beautiful song, accompanied by a melancholic sax, piano, and her own little band of jazzists.

“I have to say, I’ve heard much about you, Mr. Ratio,” the man next to him said, closing the door behind him. He called for someone near the counter, a short, pale teen with light-colored hair and dressed fancily, with a bow around his neck. “Misha! Attend the bookstore for me for a bit, won’t you?”

“Yes, of course Mr. Sunday!” He said with a salute, before running next to them. He offered Ratio a polite nod, before disappearing up the corridor.

“You have?” Veritas asked, as he followed the other.

“Yes. I’m afraid your man at times talks too much for my liking”

“Aventurine?”

The man smiled, brushing off the question with elegance, and offered him his hand. He wore long white gloves that reached up to his elbows.

“My name is Sunday Oak, if you’re ever in need of anything. I pride myself in being one of this place’s owners and founders,” Veritas took his hand, out of politeness. He wore gloves himself, black. “Aventurine is on one of the billiard tables, you can’t really miss him. I’ll join you shortly”

With that, Sunday went towards the counter, seemingly to talk something with the drinksmith, Veritas no longer paid him any mind. Anxiety prickled at him as he stared at the people that night reunited, but he breathed in and regulated his pulse, before crossing the room. He could tell some of the strangers were watching him, assessing him all in different ways. He glared sideways at them, blatantly ignoring them.

The billiard table was huddled in a corner. There, a few people were reunited, taking turns at the pool. Most of them were men, but he saw some women too. And there, he saw Aventurine.

Sunday was right. It was impossible not to see him. The people around him seemed so dim and dull, in comparison to the man. The fur of his coat fell around his shoulders, over his gold-patterned dress shirt unbuttoned at the top, leaving exposed a complicated collar made of fine, golden filaments that clung to the pale column of his throat. Once more, he wore his rose-tinted glasses, and when he took grab of his cue stick with elegant fingers, the hefty golden watch he sported around his wrist shimmered under the dim ambiance.

His smile was clever, as he leaned over the table and knocked the balls together.

The expressions of the strangers told Veritas that he’d done something good, even though he had no idea how to play billiards. When Aventurine leaned back, Veritas noted the cold, disdainful danger behind that grin. It was there, more evident than his sadness. There was a hollow sort of peril, or maybe tragedy in that man that reminded him of death, beautiful, for poets, yet fatal in its unrepentant truth.

“Well, look who it is,” Aventurine whistled, kaleidoscopic eyes turned to him. “Care for a game of billiard, Ratio?”

“I’m afraid I’ll have to decline,” He said, wincing.

Aventurine huffed a laugh, his smile taunting. He handed his cue to one of the strangers,  a well-dressed man whose eyes followed him hungrily as a bird of prey, before leaving their side. “Don’t have too much fun without me, yeah?”

He led Veritas to one of the tables at the back. They could see the performance quite clearly from there, but they weren’t close enough as to have to raise their voices to speak to each other. Aventurine leaned on his hand, smiling.

“I didn’t think I’d see you here tonight, professor,”

Veritas raised an eyebrow.

“And why’s that?”

Aventurine grinned, lazily. His canines were particularly sharp.

“You didn’t seem like the type”

Veritas smiled back at him then, eyes flicking down to the black suitcase on his lap.

“And yet you were reckless enough as to invite me?”

Aventurine shrugged.

“A gamble, as I’d call it. You have to know, I’m actually interested, in your works I mean. Jade holds you in high esteem, and some of you writing types are actually pretty intriguing. Speaking of which, I have yet to introduce you to the friends I mentioned earlier” He raised his hand to a group of people farther within the speakeasy, before turning to him once again. The way Aventurine sat in his chair was with absolute leisure, exuding an unquestionable confidence. “Are you uncomfortable with it?”

“If they’re fellow intellectuals, I don’t mind”

The friends Aventurine mentioned were, indeed, intellectuals. They consisted in quite the odd group of vanguardist artists, writers, musicians and performers who’d had their own rows with the system in earlier years. One of them, apparently, was Sunday, who arrived to sit with them a little bit later.

“Robin convinced me to get on stage with her in a few numbers, so I can’t stay long,” He warned, still with that pleasant smile Veritas was starting to find characteristic.

Apparently, Sunday Oak was not only one of the shared owners of the Revery Speakeasy, but he was quite recognized for his skills with the piano and the violin, though his name was not as widely recognized as his sister’s in that field, his sister being Robin Oak, famous jazz singer and one of its pioneers. Sunday was more renowned for his prowess in writing and musical composition, and he’d once mentioned theatre as a hobby of his. He’d been the one to raise the Reverie from its humble beginnings, and turn it into one of the most important speakeasies in town, and, as Veritas was told, there was quite a competition.

“I’ll have to admit Mr. Aventurine’s assistance has been a great part of the Reverie’s success”

“Oh yeah? What is it you do, if I can ask?”

Aventurine smiled.

“We, at the IPC, work as suppliers. Of course, we can also provide our help when it comes to… let’s say cleaning. In that, I am somewhat of an expert,” He winked at him. “But if my friends are ever in the need of anything, I’d call myself a jack of all trades” 

Some of the others which he was not acquainted with were Aglaea and Argenti, both of them writers. Both were elegant people, finely dressed in their respective, fancy garments. Aglaea’s dress, specifically, was richly  and beautifully ornamented. When he commented on it, the woman smiled. Her eyes, framed by long blonde lashes, looked at the nothingness, as she was blind. She said it made her more attuned to the other languages of the world, one of the secrets for the beauty of her writing.

“Oh, she designs her clothes herself” Argenti commented. His hair was a brimming cascade of scarlet red that fell over his back, and he always sported a simple, yet extremely fancy, brown suit with a rose by its front pocket. According to Sunday, he was the son of an aristocrat, and had been born into old money, yet he had always been an outsider in his family’s circles because of the apparent oddness of his character. “Quite beautiful, her garments, as well as the words she weaves”

The other woman, Veritas was actually acquainted with. Her name was Black Swan, and she wore a pretty black dress that fell all the way to her ankles. When she said hi to him, her smile was sad, yet she still greeted him with her own enigmatic familiarity.

“Oh, I’d never think I’d find you here Veritas. How have you been holding up, dear?”

“It’s been alright, thanks for your concern” he answered quite fondly.

“And Pela? Last time I saw her she was quite the brilliant girl”

He smiled.

“She still is”

And then she had asked for Anaxagoras, and that’s how they all found out that Aglaea was actually acquainted with Ratio’s younger brother, as she was one of the Grove’s professors. That was also how Veritas found out that Anaxa did not mention him at all to his colleagues.

Black Swan was a bit of a poet, yes, but her main form of artistry was the ways of painting. Memories, as she explained, were her project. Apparently, amongst the group, they liked to refer to her as the Memokeeper, as she was a collector of moments, both those that were loud and bright and the ephemeral and passing, which made her an excellent post-impressionist. Veritas had experimented with painting himself— there was rarely a form of art he had not tried, maybe excluding acting—and he still remembered when he was younger and she used to come by their house a lot. She’d teach him things like the Fibonacci sequence, the rules of visual composition, and how to break each one of those rules in a way that was innovative.

The last man who sat at the table was rather rather the eccentric one. His name was Recca, and he was in the business of cinematography, yet his movies had been shunned for being oftentimes cause for controversy, as they were, always, too scandalous for the unfortunate public. The man, nevertheless, never did change anything about his works, and referred to those critics as ignorant conservatives who knew nothing of surrealism. He believed in his art, and in expressing what he needed without any useless rules he had little care for.

Aventurine, on his part, had been the incidental founder of this little group. He’d met each of them separately, and then thought it a nice prospect to make them all converge. A bet of sorts, as he called it.

“So are you an artist too?” Veritas asked, curiously.

Aventurine smiled.

“I’d call myself more of an art enthusiast. A patron too, of course”

“He has the most beautiful voice,” Argenti interjected, nursing his drink. They had all asked for drinks, and Veritas held one illicit glass between his own fingers. “He’s just being modest”

“A few years back, when the Reverie was just starting, he debuted with an astounding piece, and then he never sung again,” Sunday commented, leaning back on his seat. He had a powerful presence, despite his introspective demeanor. “He’s a musical genius, but he refuses to do anything with it. To this day we’re not very sure why”

“He’d be a nice actor, I’d say,” Recca commented, already having downed a bottle by himself. “He has a nice-looking face, and if there’s someone who knows how to put on a show, it’s him”

“You all flatter me,” Aventurine said, smiling. A show, alright. Something inside Veritas churned in irritation. “But tonight we’re not here because of me, ladies and gentlemen. Ratio, if you may”

The taste of whiskey was not unfamiliar, when he took a drink. He set the glass back down, before opening his suitcase on his lap, and thumbed the pages.

Robin had finished her act for the moment, so she had come to sit besides them, next to Sunday. On her place, a quartet of jazzists were performing a slow, instrumental piece. The air was filled by the murmur of quiet conversations, distant laughter, and the clinking of glasses.

“My main work is not finished, I’m afraid,” He started, carefully grabbing the pages he’d brought with him. “So I will read all of you a fragment of something else”

He cleared his throat, and started reading.

Pela used to love it when he read to her. She said that he always managed to make her imagine everything in detail, to feel, hear and dream of the images he conjured. His students, usually, fell asleep within the five minutes.

“ ‘Let’s not speak of death, like those who fear it. Let’s not speak of death, like those that chase the divine, like those those that live under domes of gold and sombre, like those that listen words pronounced in the silence of cathedrals with devotion. Let’s not speak of death like those that don’t know it’s name, that have not seen it’s face, like those that have not listened to its words in nightly prayer…”

—

“ ‘…It is a moment of anticipation, that’s the only way to pronounce it. Macabre and beautiful, the human and the divine in its purest form, a vals in which dance just two, alone in the great ballroom that never saw the glory it was destined for.

It’s the most intimate of dances, dark, in its tragic beauty; audacious spins, a smile half hidden, with an edge of danger that is nothing but sweet.

There’s immortality in that instant. Paradoxically, there’s a peek of the eternal, in the nature of that strange dance, primordial, in every step, in every movement, in its finality.

“My sweet angel of death” A voice, warm like that that can’t be, and that that will never be. “The last note is just about to end”

“Oh, you’ve never shown me this one,” Anaxagoras stole his journal from him, and had already walked away before he could reach it, reading the last words out loud. He feigned surprise, an exaggerated show meant to do nothing but irritate him. “Who did you write this for, Veritas? You’re so serious that I would’ve never imagined you’d waste your time in exacerbated romanticism”

“Give me that back this instant, Anaxa,” He stood up from where he’d been sitting, a little farther from the party.

He tried to grab him, yet Anaxa had always been more slippery, what with his rather slender complexion.

From the place where she was sitting on the floor, near the Christmas tree, Pela laughed, yet Veritas could not find it in himself to find it amusing.

“Since when do you write such sweet nothings, my dear Veritas? Who’s the lucky girl that’s object to your disillusioned affections?”

“I don’t find this funny” He was only sixteen, yet his voice had significantly dropped in the last coupe of years.

Despite his youth, for the last few months Anaxa had been slightly taller than him, which had provided him of an ego boost that he decidedly didn’t need, a small advantage that didn’t mean anything objectively but it mean everything in the secret, nonsensical rules of siblings.

“Well, little brother, I certainly do. Let’s see… do you need to see someone? Maybe you could require such a thing, this is just so sad and awfully mopey! It’s not even good!”

“Anaxagoras,” Their father warned sternly, from where he was helping their mother set up dinner.

It was Christmas, and the whole house was adorned for the occasion, lit with several colorful lights, the pine tree in the center of the living room, and of course, the house brimming with people, which was everyone’s nightmare except maybe their mother’s, who was the one with the idea. “Leave your brother alone for God’s sake”

“Religion is the opiate of the masses, father!”

“We should’ve kept Marx away from him, I swear it only made him worse”

“I’m two years older than you, you absolute moron” Veritas hissed, giving up and massaging his nose bridge with a profound irritation.

Neither of their parents were from that country and none of them had any siblings, so they’d invited some of their neighbors from the province, people who resided in the community and their neighbors in a way, even if they did live beyond the wheat fields. Some of them were laughing at the brothers’ antics, remembering, under their breaths, when they used to be just the same. Others, typically the older ones, were shaking their heads with mild disappointment and an irritated sort of indifference.

Acheron was still out, getting the turkey; she was usually the one who resolved their disputes, oftentimes with physical force. Anaxa was always the one who started them, of course, ever the provoker of controversy. Pela was playing with one of her new toys in front of the Christmas tree, as she was being taken care of by one of their mother’s friends, and a cheery tune was playing on the gramophone. It was decidedly not helping with improving Veritas’s mood.

It had been a mistake to bring his journal down with him, but his inspiration was always at its most when he was infuriatingly bored. He had not taken it into account that his brother’s technique to fight off his own boredom was to make his life more difficult. The main problem, when there was someone that you shared so much in common yet had crucial differences with, was that peace was never afoot.

“Anaxa, please behave like the civilized human being I severely doubt you can be and give me that back”

Eventually, the conflict was fixed, yet his mood was not. He stood by the side of the party, with his plastic glass filled with milk on one hand and his journal firmly held on the other. His father had told him that he was old enough to drink wine if he wished to, but Veritas had always been sensitive to anything strong, be it noises or tastes, and he did not think alcohol would do him any good. Anaxa had left, not much later after their dispute; he never stayed for too long in large reunions, and their parents only ever forced Acheron and Veritas to be present, as they were the oldest. Pela wasn’t old enough yet to need convincing.

One of the girls had approached him at some point, when he was sulking. Girls did not talk to him much, mostly because he was said to have quite the antisocial demeanor. Her, nonetheless—what was her name? Felicia?— didn’t know him very well, as she didn’t go to the same school he did. She was probably the daughter of one of his father’s business associates, and only knew him from useless social events just as this one.

“I liked what you wrote,” She said, smiling. “It was cute”

It was her choice of words that irked him. Cute. You didn’t read a piece of literature and said it was cute. You talked about its deeper intricacies, its meaning, the artist’s soul reflected through their words to an audience in an act that should always be voluntary, in an act that was nothing but sacred. Veritas was always a little bit irritated when he felt in the presence of someone who had no true appreciation towards the sublime or the profound. There was nobility, nevertheless, in admitting you knew nothing. True fools were the ones who claimed to know while being ignorants.

Because he didn’t consider himself unmerciful, he decided to give her another try.

“What did you enjoy the most?”

“Well, it was very romantic”

He was silent for a second. That could not be it. Veritas raised an eyebrow.

“And?”

She blinked, once or twice. Her smile seemed to falter.

“Pardon?”

“Yeah, what else did you like?”

She observed him for a few seconds, before her smile turned to one of disbelief. She huffed.

“I can’t believe it. You really are how everyone says you are. You and your brother are really identical”

Veritas smiled, scoffing. He was still deeply irritated from being forced to participate in his parents’ events, publicly humiliated by his younger brother, and in his youthful moodiness he unfortunately directed all of his annoyance at the poor girl without really noticing.

“He might be a proper pain, but I’m afraid he’s not shallow”

And that’s how he ended up on his own again, which honestly was for the better.

He stared at the people at the party. Most of them he recognized. He remembered when he was a child, and the old ladies would comment on his unexpectedly rude behavior to his mother. Himself, he never thought he was rude precisely. He just said things the way the thought them, which usually didn’t come out in a very positive way. He and Anaxa were the same that way, except that his brother did seem to enjoy the chaos he provoked. Acheron on her part had only ever been very silent, which was why out of all of them, the most favored by their neighbors so far was Pela, who couldn’t even speak properly yet. Veritas understood, though. He loved Pela as well.

He was not devoid of friends, unlike that girl probably thought he was. His name was Dorian Hyde, and Veritas had met him in school, as he was from his same year. He was there that night as well, as their fathers were colleagues. Unlike him, Dorian had always been quite the charmer, and everyone wanted a little bit of his time there where he went. He was a little taller than him, yet fairer. When he saw him from across the room, an easy smile was drawn over his features.

He and Dorian had been friends for a few months now. It had all happened because the other had found him reading, alone, under a tree during school hours. Veritas had initially wanted him to leave, but when the boy had sat next to him and actually discussed the themes of the book, it picked Veritas’s interest, which led to the developing of the first genuine friendship he’d ever had in his life besides his sister, which, for some, would be rather sad —he, personally, cared for those standards very little, which is besides the point.

He was an avid reader, and came from a family of money, those who had embroidered napkins, fancy titles, and land to spare. It was a miracle at all that his father allowed him to spend his time with him, considering his immigrant heritage, but Dorian had never seemed to care much for it. He seemed to appreciate him no matter his attitude or his way of expressing himself.

Veritas had always felt as if he existed in a separate world from everyone else. He could see them behind the glass, as if the world existed behind a mirror he could only appreciate yet never fully touch, and he’d often feel as if he lacked what most people were born with naturally, some sort of natural knowledge he wasn’t privy too. And even though he never meant to hurt others, or to come off as intimidating or indifferent, he never really did know how to breach that barrier between him and everyone else.

But with certain people, it didn’t really seem to matter that much. Acheron accepted him as he was, for instance, even if she did not fully understand him. Dorian did, as well. He felt at ease with the other boy precisely because of this; he had never made Veritas feel as if he something was intrinsically wrong with him, sideways in a way. As if Veritas was someone who could be understood and listened to not simply an onlooker of humanity, who cared for it yet could never reach it.

Eventually, Veritas let in a profound sigh, left his glass somewhere, and went to the bathroom, properly at a lack of anything else to do.

Nevertheless, as he washed his hands, he heard a knock.

“I’m coming,” he said, opening the door.

Nevertheless, he was left rather confused when he saw that the one who was there was none other than Dorian. The other boy was a little taller than him, which already made him taller than most of the people invited, but then again, Veritas’s growth had not done much for him lately. He knew he would have another growth spurt soon, yet he was still waiting for it to happen, not that it mattered much in the grand scope of things. If only for Anaxagoras to shut up.

Dorian smiled. Kindness seemed to be, in some ways, a part of him so integral that Veritas could not imagine him without it.

“Hey,” he said. “Are you alright?”

Veritas nodded, expressionless.

“That’s how Anaxagoras is. It’s in his nature to be irritating, I suppose”

“Hm. It was still not fine for him to do expose your private works,” Dorian tilted his head to the side, curious. He reminded Veritas of a fox, sometimes. “Why do you call him by his full name?”

“He dislikes it when people call him otherwise. I feel inclined to respect it”

“Even when he’s being irritating?”

Veritas smiled.

“No. Certainly not when he’s being irritating”

Dorian crossed his arms over his chest, staring at him.

“And let me guess, you’re going to go hide in your room now for the rest of the night”

“It would be my preferred outcome, yes,” Something in the air had changed. Veritas was not very sure of what. No matter his alleged brilliance, he’d always been so bad at reading people. “And I suppose you’ll continue doing whatever it is that you do, gallivanting and wasting your time on nothings”

He tutted, shaking his head.

“No, I’d much rather be here with you”

They ended up locking the door, and sitting on the bathroom’s floor, shoulder to shoulder. It was the second time Veritas tried whiskey, the first being the one Acheron let him try just a few weeks ago. The one Dorian gave him was not in a stolen flask, but in a small glass. Once Veritas had taken a drink from, he coughed, passing it back to him with whatever he could muster of his dignity. Dorian had broken down laughing.

“Oh come on, it isn’t that bad!”

“I don’t understand how you can possibly enjoy it”

“You get used to it,” He tipped his head back and drank a long way. A trickle of the liquid slipped down his jaw and to his neck. When he left the flask aside, he turned to him and kissed him.

They kissed for a long time. Veritas could still not fully understand what was going on, but he was curious at the feeling in his chest, his oftentimes private heart twisting inside his chest. 

They had done this a couple of times now. It was always where nobody could see them, in a stolen instant behind a door, during their study sessions when Veritas would try to teach him the material he then found out he already knew, in an empty classroom. The first time it was very similar to this one, in a locked bathroom during a party Veritas had been forced to go, “to socialize”. Even though this was not his first, he still found himself trembling.

Dorian laughed, between kisses Veritas was not sure how to respond to.

“Relax, Veritas”

Before him, he'd never wanted to. He understood that he was somewhat of an old bloomer, and while his classmates and companions would not shut up about their newly acquired desires for years, for a long time he had always found it idiotic, irrational. He’d never felt any of it. His love was for literacy, for the knowing, the paradoxes and unanswered questions of the universe. But then he did start to feel something—something he didn’t understand. Something he was afraid of. How was someone like him made for loving?

He did not understand his longing. His poetry, his words, that was the way he knew how to grasp at the incomprehensible, unreachable feelings that he couldn’t speak aloud. He was not a boy made to love, and yet he loved, with the inexpertise of a fool.

He held the understanding that this —what he felt, what he was—it was a reason some would see him as something to be disgusted by, he understood that some would wish him to die. But since when had he ever cared for the thoughts of others?

Deep inside of him, he thought that the only one he never wanted to look at him differently was his mother. And still he told himself that the reason he hadn’t spoken of this with any of his family was because he was a private boy; this, this was his, just like his words. Deep down, he knew he was afraid. Afraid of the unknowing. Afraid to be brushed aside, of the rejection. And Dorian never did explain anything to him, and he was unwilling to speak of it even when they were alone, so, what did he know really? He felt absolutely lost, empty of answers, and there was nothing that left him more distraught.

And yet he didn’t push him away.

The door opened.

By the time they broke apart, it was too late. The ones who’d found them were, for one, Mary Fisher; an old, puritan woman, one of his mother’s friends from work. Her expression of shock quickly turned into repulsion. Next to her, the one who’d unlocked the door for her, was Acheron, who seemed surprised to say the least.

“What in the world do you two think you’re doing?” Mary yelled.

“We were just… Veritas was—”

“Spare that explanation for your father, son” 

She stormed off, yelling things Veritas couldn’t hear. Dorian stood up without looking at him once, running towards her and stepping around Acheron, disappearing into the commotion that was forming outside. Voices started to raise, a loud, loud, loud chorus of intelligible words, and it just kept raising in volume until it was painful,  unbearable.

Veritas was still sitting on the bathroom floor.

He could listen to his mother’s voice now. His father said something in an placatory manner, probably trying to calm everyone down, but he could no longer listen to the distant voices. He didn’t know what was wrong with him. Every noise was scathing, hurting his head in a sharp, acute way, as if someone had sunk a knife in his head and kept twisting it around. His vision was blurry. Where had he left his glasses? His vision was not supposed to be this blurry. His heartbeat was too loud too. Why couldn’t it be quiet? Why were his thoughts so erratic? Who was he, if he couldn’t think? Did he even exist at all, if he couldn’t? Was he anyone at all? 

Cold hands cradled his face. He tried to get away, in a panic that in him was uncharacteristic.

“It’s me, god, Veritas, it’s me” It was Acheron’s voice. “Breathe with me. What you need is to breathe”

“I can’t breathe,” His voice came out wrong, even to his own ears.

“I know, Veritas, but you have to try” Her hands were freezing, as they always were. It was grounding, in a way. “Breathe with me, alright?”

They breathed together. It took a while. Distantly, he heard several voices, closer than they had been before. Acheron left his side for a second and closed the door, before returning to kneel in front of him, touching his face, his hair, as if trying to keep him with her, keep him there. He breathed. He continued breathing. He breathed, until he could listen to her again. In front of him, Acheron watched him cautiously, concern marring her features. She had collected her long hair in a bun behind her head, sporting linen breaches and a man’s dress shirt, the sleeves rolled  up to her elbows. He noticed that around her neck she wore a sliver chain with the penchant of a swan. When had she gotten it? Why had he not noticed?

“Where did you even get that?” He murmured, tired.

She smiled. She rarely smiled, but their mother was right. It was so sweet.

“You remember that beautiful city girl that came around last month for the holidays?”

They stared at each other. Acheron huffed a laugh, devoid of any humor, and enveloped him in her arms.

“You could’ve told me”

“I can’t understand it myself, how would you expect—?”

“It’s okay, Veritas,” She caressed his hair, like she didn’t since they were kids and he tried to sneak away from her touch. “I’m not saying you should’ve. You can keep to yourself whatever you like. I just want you to know that you’re not alone in this,” Her voice took that low, sinister edge that made all men oh so deeply afraid of her. “I won’t let them hurt you”   

Years later, Veritas would wonder if Acheron ever felt guilty of not being able to keep any of her promises. He, personally, never blamed her for any of his mistakes. He might’ve been recognized as one of the brightest, once, and as such, he knew when to recognize his shortcomings, of which, regrettably, he’d had many.

—

“ ‘ The last that can be heard is the oxymoronic sound of silence, insulting just as it is beautiful.

The dance has ended

He does a slight bow, with the bitter smile of the foolish

She laughs, and with this, the piece meets it’s end.’”

Aventurine’s eyes never left him. Veritas couldn’t seem to figure out what laid behind them. His gaze was sharp, calculating, and it was not a matter of what was being observed, but that he was. Under his coat, Veritas caught the merciless shine of Aventurine’s revolver. It was then that Veritas had the impression that he’d come across a very dangerous man.

Upon his last word, a certain sort of sacred silence settled over the table, that which is reserved to the conclusion of great art pieces. Veritas could only stare ahead. Aventurine, for once, didn’t smile; his expression had been open for a second, as he read aloud, yet now it was more closed than he’d ever seen it. Indecipherable. An enigma. He wondered how many just settled for that facade, and how many had tried to discover what laid behind.

He could not help but wonder, was that first meeting under the rainfall really meant to be their last?

The slow drawl of a saxophone filled the silence. Aventurine kept staring at him. Analyzing.

“Have you lost someone before, Veritas Ratio?” He asked, his long fingers playing with the lit cigarette between them.

“By the time I started this I hadn’t,” He spoke. His voice was hoarse. “Yet by the time I finished…” His own gaze was firm. He sat, with his chin raised high in defiance. “I’m afraid I had already lost most of what I had”

Aventurine raised his chin. His eyes held no spark in them, yet there was there, for a moment, something genuine. An understanding.

Black Swan, who sat next to him, smiled sadly.

—

According to his father, they were lucky that they’d handled the issue in such a way that  the word of what had happened did not spread anymore than it already had. Hyde was a surname that held weight to it, and Dorian’s father had contributed generously to ensuring silence was met.

“He also insisted on… something else,” Out of all of them, Veritas was told that he was the most alike to his father, not only in the way they looked. They were both serious men, who could not find it in themselves to say what they felt when faced upon by each other.

Veritas was sat by the couch of the living room. His father stood in front of him, and Acheron was on the edge of the room, her arms crossed over her chest. She never left him alone with their parents, these days, not if she could help it. She was always there, simply watching, guarding.

“I know you want to say it so just do, sir,” Veritas said, a drip of sarcasm seeping into his words. His father stared down at him, his expression difficult to read.

“He suggested you try something known as conversion therapy”

He could see it, how Acheron’s shoulders tensed before she even said anything.

“He’s not going to do it,”

“I might want to correct myself. He did not suggest it,” His father sighed, massaging his nose bridge. “Lord, Veritas, I don’t even know what to do with you”

He didn’t let his own expression change.

“Acheron is right. I have no intention to undergo such a thing,” His gaze drifted to his own shoes. They had been a gift from his father, black, elegant. He’d been so happy, when he’d showed them to him. “I already apologized to you. It was an accident”

“Dorian’s alibi was that you forced him into it,”

That got him to stop. He raised his head, meeting his father’s gaze, who scoffed.

“Yes, Veritas, that’s what he said. For the record, I don’t believe him,” His father intervened. Suddenly, the man that, for so long, seemed to intelligent and admirable for him, seemed much more old and exhausted. For some reason, it caused him contempt. “I wouldn’t believe him more than my own son. That doesn’t change the fact that Mr. Hyde does. He threatened me with throwing you in jail”

“He can’t do that”

“Yes he can. He’s got money and influence, I’m afraid”

“Just tell him he’s on it and that is that,” Acheron suggested from her spot near the wall.

“He’ll find out if it’s true”

“I’ll talk to Dorian,” Veritas said coldly, standing up so he and his father were eye to eye. He did not like it when people lorded over him. “And if you don’t know what to do with me, I’ll leave, if you want me to. I’ll find a way”

His father stared at him. Son and father, neither of them ever taught how to love, and none of them versed when it came to being loved. There was a reason they had never been close.

“You don’t have to leave anywhere, Veritas,” He didn’t think he’d ever seen his father so devastatingly tired. There were so many other things Veritas wanted him to say in that moment. And yet he knew he’d never be able to voice any of them.

You don’t have to leave. That was all he could give. For him, it would have to be enough.

He sent one last look in his direction before heading upstairs. On his way, he brushed past Acheron, just to let her know he was alright in a way that didn’t require him to speak, and when he turned one last time he saw the shape of his dad in the center of the room, precariously thin, exhausted, and alone. The yellow patterns on the walls and on the curtains looked so lifeless then.

As he walked up the stairs, he caught eye of movement. Once he reached the top, he saw Anaxa, who was standing by his room’s door as if he had been there all along, seemingly deep in thought. Veritas stared at him for a second, before he scoffed and walked past him, not in the mood to deal with his younger brother. Nevertheless, as he left him behind, he felt a hand grip at the edge of his shirt.

“No, wait,” He shook him off, and kept walking. “Veritas, stop”

“What for?”

“Veritas, I want to apologize to you,” He kept walking. “I really do! You know I’m not dishonest. I made a mistake. I should’ve never stolen your journal”

“You should’ve said sorry when it mattered”

“For Nietzsche’s sake, you say I’m difficult but have you ever met yourself? I’m sorry, alright!”

To that, Veritas stopped, turning around and sending a scathing look in his brother’s direction. 

“You call that apologizing?” He took a double take, and frowned. “Nietzsche?”

There was an awkward moment of silence. Anaxagoras spread his arms as if the answer was self-explanatory, his mouth set in a straight line.

“Well, I don’t know, I’m an atheist so I needed an expression to use that didn’t counter my beliefs”

Veritas could not help the amusement those words sparked in him. He was not one to smile often but he did then, and something in the air seemed to lift, between them.

“It sounds utterly stupid, not to mention childish” 

“Well, what do you want me to say? For Marx’s sake?”

“You won’t land on something that doesn’t sound stupid. Simply say fuck, I’m sure it would suit you,” Veritas stopped for a second. “Does mother know you’re an atheist?”

“I’ve been very loud about it, but I’m more or less convinced everyone thinks I’m joking when I’m clearly being serious”

“Or maybe they’ve simply given up on you”

“I thought out all of them you would’ve understood, you were the one who forced me to read when I was two years old,” Anaxa’s eyes flicked down. He played with his long, slender hands distractedly. Sometimes, he was still a child, more than Veritas had ever been when he was his age. “This also means that I am knowledgeable enough to know you did nothing wrong, except maybe picking an asshole to get found out with. You could do better on that part”

He wasn’t very sure what to say to that, so he simply nodded. Anaxa nodded back. The important thing about their disputes was that they were always solved, one way or another.  It was one of the universe’s constants, those laws of physics that would always do as they  were meant to do, how things were meant to be. The secrets of brotherhood, those were among those laws of the universe; fighting and amending.

Veritas turned around, and headed towards his parents’ room, opening the door.

His mother sat by her bed. She was singing a quietly to Pela, who was drifting to sleep on her arms. The curtains lifted gently, with the breeze, and beyond the small window, the countryside spread like a tapestry until the moment where the distant mountains raised, before meeting the jagged line of the sky. She was giving her back to the door, dressed in that prim yellow dress she loved, with the white flower print, and the way she held Pela to her chest was with the utmost expression of love. Veritas stood by the door, his hand by the wood, painted white once by loving hands. He was no longer sure if he was welcome past that threshold.

“May I come in?” He asked, more quietly than what was characteristic of him.

His mother didn’t turn around. In his memories, he always remembers how he wholeheartedly expected her to do so. To smile at him, with that genuine, pure sort of affection, the way she used to. She was always ever so gentle when he was little, so immensely proud, when he was recognized by his intellect, when they put him a few years above academically because of his talent. She’d carry him in her arms, even when he taught he was getting too bog for it, and her laughter, filled with mirth, would be more comforting than any ray of morning sun.

Once, long ago, he knew that she had been a medic. Healing was an art which relied heavily on the ability to love even the ones you didn’t know the name of.

“I’m occupied right now, Veritas”

He can never remember seeing her face, after that.

There was no music then, playing on her gramophone. Veritas did not let his expression change, and he said nothing as he closed the door once more. As he did so, he watched how the golden light that was streaming from inside the room was completely shut away, leaving him standing alone in mundane darkness.

He was not a boy who cried often, so he didn’t. Anaxagoras watched him with wide eyes as Veritas took a deep breath, before walking past him to his own room. He closed the door behind him calmly, and then, in the emptiness of his room, he stood with his chin held high in what some might mistake as arrogance.

He couldn’t muster the strength to speak to Dorian until a few weeks later, once classes started again. He managed to convince his father not to send him to conversion therapy, and he learned to ignore how much his conversations with his mother thinned until they were almost hollow or down-right nonexistent. Acheron was by his side when needed, and his relationship with Anaxagoras was the same as ever, if only a bit more good-natured. Veritas had never known him to be anything remotely close to apologetic, yet it seemed his sudden amicability stemmed from guilt.

It was foolish in an innocent, youthful way for Anaxa to believe Veritas’s estrangement from his parents was his fault, nevertheless; it was none other than his own for taking too many reckless choices. 

Pela, on her part, was not unaware of the turmoil that her family was undergoing. Veritas had never interacted with many kids before, and he’d never been one to be much interested in the topic before, but he was figuring out, through curious observation, that she was much more intuitive that he would’ve imagined her to be. Even though she could not really understand what was going on, she had started to cling to him more when she could, and she became agitated pretty quickly in his absence. Veritas, on her part, tried to reassure her in any way he could. That morning, before he left for school, he stopped one moment before the breakfast table to say goodbye to her.

She seemed happy, that morning, as she sat on her baby chair and ate at her mashed food. Their mother had left briefly to look after something, Veritas didn’t know what. Upon seeing him, she shook her arms, like she did when she wanted to be carried, smiling with that baby smile of hers.

“Veritas!”

“Hello,” He tilted his head slightly, observing the way she gripped her small fork on one hand. “My, my, you’re armed. That can’t be safe at all”

She laughed. As she continued to reach for him, he obliged and took her in his arms. She was heavier now than she was when she was more little, but it still was not much of a weight to him, who had begun working out more in recent years.

“Where are you going?” She asked him, her hand tapping against his cheek. She was already saying all sorts of short sentences, and she was looking up to be as bright as his brothers.

“Class. In a few years you’ll be old enough for it yourself, you see” He kissed the top of her hair. “You’ll go and pursue a higher education, as any civilized member of us the mundanite”

She smiled. Her eyes were of a blue none of them had, bright and inquisitive.

“You speak a lot of funny things”

“It’s useless to be concerned, as you see, you’ll understand them someday hopefully very soon”

“We’re going to be late!” Acheron yelled, as she passed by the kitchen towards the door. She was not yelling at him, but at Anaxagoras, who had not even left his room yet.

“Time is but an illusion, my dear sister!” Veritas heard his distant yell.

When his mother returned into the room, she stopped for a second when she saw that he was holding Pela. She seemed more tensed than he had ever seen her in years. He stifled. Pela noticed, and she turned to him, tapping his chin with her small hands.

“Why are you sad?” She asked him, before strongly enveloping his neck with her arms. “Don’t be sad!”

His mother watched them, then their eyes met once more. She mustered a smile, and she walked until she was in front of him.

“Veritas has to leave for class, Pela. He’ll come back later”

“I don’t want him to leave!” She spoke a lot of words, for a two year old. Veritas was  silently proud of her.

“You’re choking me,” He commented, quietly amused rather than annoyed. “I’m going to have to leave you with our mother right at this very moment. I’ll be back by lunch, is that alright?”

“No!”

By some miracle, they managed to untangle her. His mother took her between her arms once more, and when Veritas left, they did not exchange a word.

The school they attended to was one of the extensions of the Grove, one of the best universities not only by the countryside but of the whole country. It was rather exclusive, but they’d had no problem getting in.

The section they attended to, the one that had its lower grades, was in a different side of town than the college. The architectural design was beautiful, and trees grew from every side of the campus, which made it look like it was really an ancient academy hidden by enigmatic groves, there where the nymphs would gather to gossip and scorn whatever human dared trespass into their homes.

Veritas had always loved it, the culture of knowledge, the love for learning, even though most of his peers did not share the same sentiment. Because of his intellectual prowess, he was ahead of those his age and studied the same year as Acheron; together they were meant to finish school together that same year. Anaxa had been forwarded as well, which meant he was only a year behind. Probably, the only reason they had not yet allowed both of them to graduate was because of certain regulations they were not aware of.

That day in particular nevertheless, he did not find it in himself to be excited to attend.

The whole day, while switching from class to class, he tried to reach Dorian, yet the boy had been pointedly ignoring him, avoiding his gaze, purposefully stepping out of where he’d be, surrounded every time by his army of friends Veritas did not even know the name of. Neither did it not go unnoticed by him the strange looks he saw sent in his direction from time to time. His peers had never been particularly friendly to him —according to them, he probably never gave them a reason to—but the cold eyes he felt on his back, and the unusual jabs, those left him with a leftover feeling of wrongness.

He didn’t manage to catch Dorian alone until lunch break. He stopped him, before he could leave class for the cafeteria, and closed the door behind them.

“You’ve got some explaining to do,” He said coldly, his fingers firmly around the knob.

Dorian’s eyes eyed him with something they had never held before, when looking at him; contempt.

“About what, exactly?”

“I pegged you for being smarter than this,”

He bit back a gasp when the taller boy held him by the collar of his shirt and shoved him against the door, so sharply a wave of pain was sent over his spine.

“Listen here, Veritas—”

Dorian might’ve been slightly taller, but Veritas had a stronger constitution, which made it easy for him to push the other off of him. He did it with such force that the boy crashed against the now empty tables, which slipped and made him fall to the floor. Veritas exhaled, staring at him in disbelief.

“Explain it to me,” He demanded, calmly, then a bit more irritated. “Explain it to me. Why did you tell your father  that I forced you? What the hell were you thinking, if you were thinking at all?”

“Self-preservation!” He yelled, standing up, again. He looked disheveled, the ire in his eyes something Veritas had never seen before in him. “My father would’ve killed me, Veritas, don’t you understand? He would’ve beaten me until I could no longer breathe, and then I would’ve had nothing. I come from a long lineage, I am expected to inherit his fortune, and in a moment I would’ve lost it all. You were not worth that much”

Veritas stood there, quiet. Dorian laughed, staring him down.

“Don’t look at me like that,” He walked until he was just in front of him again, the expression on his face hesitant to slip into cruelness. “The only reason I picked you was because you were so lonely, so inexperienced, that I figured it would be easy for me to feign some qualities you liked and get close to you.”

“What do you mean by that?”

Dorian looked at him funny.

“All the things I told you— most were because I wanted you to like me, so just forget about all of it, alright?” He pushed him aside, opening the door. “You don’t know anything about me, really” 

“It’s not because of your knowledge that I… that I liked you,” Veritas said, facing forwards. Dorian’s steps halted, not abruptly. “It was never because of our discussions, though I did appreciate them. It was because of that bird”

Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Dorian turning around.

“What bird?”

“You didn’t know me then. It was when we were on that senseless school trip and you found that small fledgeling by the street, and you held it in your hands like it was something worth treasuring. When you thought nobody was looking, you cried for it”

They were silent for a second.

“I thought, someone who cries for something not most would care for has to hold a certain sort of love. Someone who cares so much about the lives most would not see. That’s what I liked about you. I admired you for it”

Outside, there was no sound but the quiet whisper of the wind. The birds were gone, and the canopy was bare, as it was winter.

“You’re so pathetic,” Dorian said, finally, and he didn’t even say the words with disdain; he sounded sad. “You are so intelligent, Veritas, but at the same time you’re so clueless. You might be so brilliant that your future is set to be nothing but as bright, so smart as to have the headmistress talking about how you’re going to be one of our generation’s best. But at the end of it, you will always stand alone, surrounded by all of those trophies you pride yourself in earning, because you don’t know how to love the people that surround you, and none of them have any clue on how to love you back,” He laughed, shortly, bitterly. “Everyone would think you’d like that, to spend the rest of your days by yourself, reading, pondering whatever it is that interests you. But I no longer think so”

Before he left forever, his hand brushed against his shoulder. 

“Oh, and also,” Veritas pointedly did not look at him; a silent act of rebellion. “Don’t speak of any of this, okay?”

“Or what, you’ll make your dearly beloved father force me into conversion therapy? Get me out of school? Ruin any career I dare have? Please do tell what creative threats you’ve come up with and leave”

Dorian didn’t fluster, or rise to the argument. His fingers squeezed his shoulder, once.

“As bright as ever, Veritas”

The door closed, and he stood in the center of the room. He would not rat on him, not only because it would be completely idiotic and shatter any goals he himself had at any sort of future, but partly because he didn’t consider himself a resentful boy. He was above childish things such as that.

He didn’t move. He didn’t go anywhere. He stood in the grand emptiness of the room, and he did not bow his head for the gone. What Dorian said had its truth, but it didn’t matter at all. Veritas knew that he didn’t desire for people to know how to love him. His words were right there in his journal, ink written in paper, that one day might come to make the world, as cliche it was to say it this way, a better place, a kinder place. He’d remain an observer, and he’d continue to love everything the way he knew how; at a distance.

He didn’t have the need for anything else. He knew that whatever happened, he’d be alright.

He knew how to live with it.