Knights and Knaves puzzles

Dazai    Chuuya didn’t ask why we had until morning. In truth, I was rather quietly hoping I had a few hours' head start on Joanne. I had no idea what was happening at the Avalon orphanage right now. Perhaps the police had figured out the gunshot came from there, or perhaps they had left empty-handed. Perhaps they had already questioned the children and alerted Joanne — or perhaps not. But even in the best-case scenario, come morning, Joanne would arrive at the orphanage to find both Wilde and Anne missing. And the frightened children, no doubt, would tell her about the shot they’d heard in the night. And from there, well — things would get worse exponentially. As I’d expected, at this hour, the only functioning part of the hotel was the bar, so I had to go to a 24-hour convenience store for tea. While I was at it, I picked up some soda, vinegar, and even hydrogen peroxide — I had a feeling that purging bloodstains from parquet flooring would be no trifling endeavor. Parquet, of all things. Really, what had compelled Chuuya to stay in one of the most exorbitant hotels in the West End, rather than somewhere less extravagant, with tile or linoleum instead? Next time, we should— No. There wouldn’t be a next time. This was the final case of Double Black. Chuuya was enjoying this dubious little adventure far too much. That would not do. He still wanted to get his childhood friend back, still thought there was something left of that boy inside me. But that boy had long since ceased to exist. I reminded myself of an old, threadbare fabric, unraveling beneath my own fingers, nothing but an all-consuming void beneath, and yet somehow, he refused to see it. How much longer could he keep pretending? The sooner he abandoned his delusions, the better. Even torture hadn’t made him let go. He still pitied me, like he had when we were ten. But I had no need for his pity — he needed to see me for what I was. I really hadn’t wanted to involve him in this. But unfortunately, he was the only one who could follow my plans without prior explanation, and the only one whose reliability was beyond question. …The only one I missed. Yes, it would be foolish to lie to myself — I had missed him. And it wasn’t just the suffocating gloom of Avalon or the way Chuuya pulled me out of that quicksand like a life preserver. It was good to see his self-assured smirk, to bicker, to joke, to talk about anything at all. Good and… painful, I suppose. Hard to explain — even to myself. But then, most things involving Chuuya were like that: complicated and painful. And he still looked at me the way he always had. As if I were someone worth looking at like that. He didn’t understand that his glances were grating, that they carried a bitter aftertaste — like the smoke of a burned-down house you could never return to. Or, perhaps, a house that had never existed in the first place. He always wanted something from me that I could never give him. Of course, in my loneliest moments, I sometimes played at being the kind of person he could love — but in truth, that person had never existed. There had never been an Osamu Dazai. There was only emptiness.   I also stopped by a McDonald's and bought an entire bag of burgers. When I returned to the room, Chuuya greeted my offering with a look of such profound offense that one might assume he’d been raised on foie gras served on silver platters, though I knew for a fact that wasn’t the case. "Do you even know what that shit does to your body?" "I’m not offering you any," I said curtly. Chuuya scowled. Make up your mind, I thought — are you protesting the mere presence of the burgers, or are you secretly craving them? I set the food down on a chair in front of our captives. Then I removed Wilde’s gag, untying his right hand from the radiator. Up until now, it had been bound high above his head — a painful, powerless position, one I’d chosen deliberately. But I had nothing left to extract from him, so I could afford to let up. I’d also bandaged his leg earlier — not with actual bandages, but with cloth strips, and quite neatly at that. The wound was clean — I’d taken care not to damage any tendons or ligaments — but it was large. If I hadn’t stopped the bleeding, I’d have had an even bigger mess to clean off the godforsaken parquet later. When I approached Anne to remove her gag and free one of her hands as well, she immediately bristled with her electric barrier, like a hedgehog. I shrugged and stepped back. The burgers sat on the chair, filling the room with their scent. I busied myself making tea. Chuuya, failing rather spectacularly at feigning indifference, started circling the food like a cat. I knew exactly what he was after: a cheeseburger. But the moment he stopped pretending not to care and reached for the box, Wilde snatched it up first. For a split second, Chuuya’s face was the picture of childish indignation — but he was far too noble to snatch food back from a hostage. I hadn’t thought I’d find anything in this entire situation funny, but, well. That was rather amusing. Wilde devoured the burger. Anne, meanwhile, fixed him with a silent, blistering glare. "What?" he said, as if in self-defense. "This is stupid. What good is it if we starve to death? They’d be thrilled if we refused to eat..." "Precisely," I smiled. "That’s why I bought it for you. Impeccable logic." He shot me a sullen look, chewed in moody silence for a while, then finally caved. "Then why?" he asked. "Why didn’t you just kill us?" "Tell me, Wilde-san, are you at all acquainted with game theory?" I inquired pleasantly. "Oh, for fuck’s sake..." Chuuya muttered. "A little," Wilde admitted, albeit warily. "Then you are, of course, aware that in nonzero-sum games — war, for instance — there exists one fundamental dilemma. It concerns interaction and trust. Painkillers? No? Now, where was I? Ah, yes... The premise is that cooperation allows both parties to reap greater benefits — or at the very least, incur lesser losses — than outright hostility. And yet, even armed with this knowledge, rational players choose betrayal, for the simple reason that there are no guarantees of the opponent’s honesty. Isolated, deceit appears the more profitable option." "I know that much. But what does that have to do with—" "However, that is only true in the short term," I continued, undeterred. "The calculus shifts entirely when the same players engage repeatedly, with each choice informed by prior encounters. There’s a rather fascinating book — The Evolution of Cooperation. The author concludes that, over time, the most successful strategy is one that mirrors the opponent’s last move. For example, you attempted to shoot me, and I — most regrettably — drove a knife into your leg. I trust my explanation is clear?" "Oh, crystal," the boy bit out. "Your author really cracked the code there," Chuuya scoffed. "Surprised he didn’t name his book Life Lessons for Dummies and Sociopaths. Normal people figure that out in preschool. If someone lets you play with their toy car, you let them play with yours. If they punch you in the face, you punch them right the fuck back. No need for a goddamn thesis. But I get it — dumb shit for plebs, convoluted shit for the brainiacs." "Remarkable that you know the word 'plebs' at all." "Yeah, learned it from you, genius. Real mystery there." "So, Anne," I turned to her, "have you reached a decision? Wanting to eat or not?" The barrier around her flickered erratically, like the breath. But she offered no reply — only steeled her gaze, and with it, the glow of the electric field solidified into a stark, unwavering wall. The message was clear: Do not approach. "As you wish." I shrugged. "Now then, back to game theory. There exists an even better strategy." I leaned against the chair. "...As our example with the knife has illustrated, if an interaction begins poorly, a simple tit-for-tat approach yields nothing but escalating retaliation. The question, then, is how to break the cycle. The answer is simple: forgiveness. In such cases, the strategy of treating others as you wish to be treated proves the most advantageous. If the opponent ceases their betrayals, cooperation follows, yielding mutual gain. It may sound sentimental, but a moderately altruistic strategy is, in fact, the most self-serving. I am attempting to convey, Wilde-san, that this is not merely a moral stance, but a mathematical certainty, which can be verified quite easily by simulating several situations with different strategies—" "Jesus Christ," Wilde groaned. "After all this... after everything... You stage your own personal Abu Ghraib, and now you’re preaching about forgiveness? About reconciliation? You’re completely unhinged." "I hardly expected immediate agreement. Consider it, shall we say, food for thought." Since he appeared to have finished his meal, I re-secured his wrist to the radiator and replaced the gag. A cursory glance at my watch. "Well then, Chuuya, shall we go?" "The same place again?" he grumbled. I spread my hands. Where else? As we left, he finally snatched a couple of burgers from the chair.   "Fucking fantastic," Chuuya grumbled. "Six grand for a goddamn suite, and I’m stuck on a bathroom floor. Not that I don’t have some ideas about me and you in a fancy-ass London hotel room, but this ain’t exactly what I had in mind." His jokes had been approaching dangerous territory more and more frequently. I had yet to decide what to do about this particular development — but merely ignoring it, as I had so many other things, was proving... difficult. He sat against the bathroom wall, laptop balanced on his knees. The leather pants had been replaced with something looser, the shirt switched for a more casual one emblazoned with "Good boys go to Heaven, bad boys go to London." The bun in his hair remained, as did the fashionable glasses. Astounding, really, that amid the chaos of our situation, he still found time to tend to his appearance — and, judging by the crisp scent of soap and shampoo, even make proper use of the facilities. At present, he was absentmindedly gnawing on a pencil, though making no notes, merely scrolling through something on the screen. Perhaps research. Perhaps Instagram. Technically, I was the one "stuck on the bathroom floor" — lying on my elbows, scrutinizing a sheet of paper filled with half-formed theories, none of which satisfied me. "I find the bathroom floor rather romantic, actually. But if you’d prefer, we can move to the bedroom," I retorted, dryly. Why was I encouraging this? "Yeah, in the bedroom we’ll get exactly zero work done, and you fucking know why." Somehow, he never quite breached the boundaries between us — but he made his intent painfully clear: Yes, I want this, and I won’t pretend otherwise. Chuuya had always been honest. Transparent in a way I was not. It was... enthralling. And infuriating. This had to stop. "We’re not making much progress here either," I deflected. "Let’s start from the beginning. The first mention of the Equalizers — seven months ago. A month later, Yeats, a minister of Witenagemot, dies in an unfortunate accident. His position is filled by George Eliot, who, conveniently, happens to be an Equalizer. And, as if on cue, several other well-known members of their organization also step into government roles. Completely inconspicuous." "Yeah. The magic ministry went tits-up." Chuuya stretched, rolling his shoulders. "I was there two days ago. Pretended to be a journalist. The place is a fucking loony bin. I mean, they’re shuffling papers like usual, but the second you mention Joanne? It’s like stepping into a goddamn black hole. 'Don't you guys think that an organization that takes away abilities might be a little dangerous?' I asked. 'Oh no, no, nothing to worry about! It's a completely voluntary matter! And if it wasn’t voluntary, well, those people were probably up to no good anyway, so who gives a shit?' You get the idea." "Right. Which means every surviving member of Britain’s primary paranormal institution has likely been brainwashed and stripped of their abilities." An interesting notion — one with considerable implications. But perhaps I shouldn't pursue it out loud. "If we’re even correct in our assumption that the Cursed Child operates by removing memories and, in doing so, strips abilities along with them..." "Like, could they rewrite memories without erasing powers? Doubt it. Kinda makes sense, doesn’t it?" Chuuya mused. "Memory’s the foundation of identity. As long as you know who you are, you keep your powers. Mess with one, the other cracks too." "An elegant hypothesis. And, indeed, every case I’ve observed supports it. But how fascinating that none of the Witenagemot’s remaining members have even considered testing their abilities. They were erased, and they didn’t even notice?" "Not everyone uses their powers twenty-four-seven. Maybe the hypnosis kills the urge to check. Hell, even you were worried yours got wiped without you realizing." "I’m always worried about that," I admitted. His hand, resting on the floor just inches from my face, lifted and brushed lightly through my hair — sideways, with his bare wrist, not the glove. "All good," he pronounced. "Admit it, you just wanted to touch my head." He didn’t bother denying it. "Yeah. Also, that pair is getting on my nerves a little, and when I’m touching you, at least I don’t have to sense their presence," he nodded toward the door. "What do we do with the kids?" "Depends on where we land... Are you looking at cat pictures right now?" I asked suspiciously. "Nah... Well, not just that. I’m also reading Joanne’s emails. Kinda curious to see what she’s like in real life, y’know, get a sense of her..." Some local hacker had helped crack Joanne’s inbox — a Byronic young man suffering from some variety of autistic disorder, probably Asperger’s, whom Chuuya had dug up from God knows where (I’d decided not to inquire further). Despite the Asperger’s, the Brit could add and multiply just fine — he’d charged a sum that would’ve made someone like Kunikida or Atsushi clutch their heads in despair. Unfortunately, it seemed we’d wasted our money: I’d pulled various details from the emails — assignments to subordinates, meeting dates — but not a single new lead had emerged. "...What’s she like? Smart," I said absently. "Perceptive, calculating, sees right through people..." "Yeah, that’s obvious," he snorted. "But you don’t get a sense of who she is. Lots of business emails. No subscriptions to TV channels, no spam from online stores, not even cat pictures... Bet she doesn’t even visit porn sites. Oh! Two tickets to Warwickshire..." "Yes, I noted that trip. She obviously recruited George Eliot there. Eliot’s dead now, so that information is of no use to us anymore." "I mean, two tickets! Maybe she’s got someone? Not a total cyborg after all?" Chuuya grinned. "Highly doubtful. They probably were for her and her son." "Ah. Right." He deflated, then buried himself back in the emails. "Fuck, there’s nothing human about her. Some charity organizations correspondence. Political petitions. What the hell... Book orders from Amazon..." "What books?" I asked, suddenly interested. "More pointless crap. Psychology, sociology, textbooks." "Math?" "No, English and literature. Eighth-grade level." "Ah, for her son, probably," I recalled. "Yeah, nothing intriguing." "Should write it on my hand so I don’t forget she has a kid," Chuuya smirked. I flinched. Short-term memory holds information for only a few seconds. In those seconds, I managed to grab a pen. "Chuuya... repeat what you just said." "Should write it on my hand that she’s got a kid..." he repeated obediently — then scowled. "Wait, are you fucking with me?" I wasn’t. I had, in fact, written on my palm: Joanne’s son — just as I had once scrawled 221 on my forearm — and now I was staring at the words, unblinking. Strangely, even this simple act had required an effort, almost physical. Every instinct urged me to look away, to think about something else. I had dismissed the idea that Joanne’s nullifying ability belonged to someone else, but there had been one thing that nagged at me. I distinctly remembered that, during the ritual, we had surrounded the victim symmetrically, which meant the number of people in the "inner circle," including Joanne herself, should have been even. Yet no matter how I counted, I only came up with five: Jane, Bernard, Joanne, Wilde, and me. As if there had been someone else… Someone who, for some reason, had failed to lodge in my memory — a memory that was usually anything but sieve-like. "So, where was I?" Chuuya asked in a bored tone. "Ah, right. Books, then some emails about charity donations..." "Chuuya!" I shot up, sat down beside him, and thrust my palm under his nose. "What do you think of this? Focus." He stared at the writing. "Son?.. You think he’s got something to do with our case? I think I saw him at the ceremony, just a... scrawny, forgettable kid. Doesn’t seem capable of much," Chuuya said uncertainly. That was exactly it. We had both seen him at the house in the woods, I had even seen him with Joanne several times — and yet we had both completely erased him from our minds. How was that possible? Joanne’s son. Even staring directly at the words on my hand, all I could fix in my mind was the fact that the boy had been there — but I couldn’t recall what he looked like. Or his name. Or his age. Chuuya’s fingers clattered over the keyboard, pulling up countless articles about Joanne. Occasionally, he seemed to forget what we were doing entirely, zoning out — until I showed him my hand again. It would have been funny if it weren’t so deeply unsettling. "Not much about the kid. He’s adopted, from the Summerisle orphanage. Name’s Bill... William, actually. He’s twelve now. And that’s... pretty much it. Not much to go on..." I wasn’t surprised that journalists, too, had conspicuously avoided focusing on this enigmatic boy. "Summerisle orphanage…" I repeated. I had seen that name somewhere before. Long ago, long before this whole Equalists cult business... Chuuya checked the map. "It’s in Greenwich. We could call or go there… but they probably won’t remember him," he said doubtfully. "I mean, if you’re hoping they’ll confirm that they once had a kid with superpowers and tell us something useful — forget it. Even if we find his name in old records, so what? We still won’t learn anything useful..." Summerisle orphanage! I remembered! I remembered where I had seen that name. It was in a news piece about an orphan girl whose powers had suddenly disappeared. Not a boy. A girl. Could I still find that article? Years had passed… I grabbed the laptop from him, typed into the search bar: Summerisle girl flight... The article was still there. "Let’s go, Chuuya," I said. "Greenwich — is that far from London? That’s where the meridian is, right?" "It’s close. You should at least pretend to be interested in the city you’ve come to. There’s also an observatory there — you like that kinda stuff, don’t you?" "An observatory? Well... We have more pressing matters." "Right now, my pressing matter is getting to a bed…" He groaned. "The hell did you just think of? You look like some cloistered nun who just ran into a battalion of sex-starved soldiers. I wanna sleep, dumbass. It’s six in the morning, and the orphanage doesn’t open until noon."   ***   Compared to the pristine Avalon, Summerisle looked exactly like that orphanage from a horror movie — the one with flickering lights, peeling walls, and a history of unspeakable things happening in the basement. Everything here was old, grimy, and exhausted from years of neglect. The courtyard featured a set of lopsided swings, a broken carousel stripped of its seats, and... something else rusty and broken. Inside, the peeling-paint hallway reeked of sour soup and loneliness. "Good afternoon," I said. "Does a girl named Ginny Woolf still reside here?" "Visits are for relatives and potential adopters only," the duty officer muttered, eyes fixed on a paperback detective novel, not bothering to answer the question itself. I reached for my wallet, prepared to resolve this matter with the help of a few strategically placed banknotes, when Chuuya suddenly blurted out: "We're adopters." That got the man’s attention. He finally tore his gaze from the novel and studied us with newfound curiosity. "Oh. One of those, huh? So, uh... you're married?" He gave an uncertain nod. "Well, fair enough. No law against it, I suppose. But why this particular girl? She’s older, you know. And, uh, troubled." "Precisely," I declared solemnly, having no idea what he was referring to. Demonstratively, I slipped an arm around Chuuya’s waist — narrow even beneath his coat, settling so naturally under my hand that I almost forgot the gesture was for show. Chuuya played along with alarming enthusiasm, fluttering his lashes and smiling in a way that could be interpreted as either shy or indecent. "That's why we were interested in Ginny, right, dear?.. Any fool can take in a well-adjusted child. But adopting a girl who’s been through hardship? That is a worthy cause. That is a noble endeavor. That is the work of true kindness. But, of course, we’d like to speak with her first — you understand. If we don’t get along, it would be unfair to subject the poor thing to a life with us." The officer nodded gravely, as though I had just imparted some deep wisdom. "If only more people thought like you, sir. Most folks just think about themselves... Well, since you know what you’re getting into, I suppose I’ve no reason to stop you. And good for the girl, I say — she’s not getting normal parents at this point, so at least this way, she’ll have... something like a family. She’s probably either in the library or outside in the yard." "'She’s not getting normal parents at this point!'" Chuuya hissed indignantly once we were far enough down the hall. "The fuck does that mean? I swear, I’d shove your ‘normal’ right up your fat—" "Do lower your voice, please… The man is a duty officer at an orphanage, reading some pulp fiction trash novel, and clearly not thrilled about either. Life has punished him enough. But once we’re done, you may, of course, kill him, my beloved spouse." "Really?" Chuuya brightened. "No. Not unless you wish to experience the complexities of the English judicial system firsthand." We found Ginny Woolf in the courtyard. She looked about thirteen, with short, dark-blonde hair and piercing blue eyes — not unlike Chuuya’s. A plaid blanket covered her lap. And beneath that blanket, the wheels of a wheelchair peeked out. I was beginning to think there were altogether too many orphanages and broken children in this story. "Hey," she said. "I'm Ginny. Virginia, technically." "A pleasure, Ginny. My name is—" I hesitated. Chuuya filled in smoothly: "His name’s Mr. Joushi, and I’m Mr. Ikita." I concealed a smirk. "Ginny," I said, "forgive us, but we’re not actually adopters. We’d like to speak to you about an incident from a few years back…" I pulled a folded printout from my coat and handed it to her. She took the article and read it in deep concentration, furrowing her brows. I watched her scan the lines over and over again, as though she were committing them to memory. Five times, at least. She didn’t look surprised — just resigned. "You journalists?" she asked at last. "No." "If you were, you'd say the same thing." What an intelligent girl. I had half a mind to ask if she was familiar with the logic puzzles about knights and knaves, but the timing seemed inappropriate. "We're more like really shit detectives," Chuuya admitted. "We're digging up info on some kid, but you probably don’t remember him — no one fucking does, for some reason. He used to live here. William. Ring any bells?" Ginny gasped, clasping her hands over her mouth. “Billy,” she said. “Yes, everyone forgot him. Sometimes even I think he was just a figment of my imagination…” She fell silent for a moment before adding: “Just like the flying. It was so long ago… You know, when you're little, you think you're special, that you can do something extraordinary. But then you grow up, and that feeling fades. The same thing happens with imaginary friends. They leave when you become too old for them.” “Will you tell us about your flights?” The girl lowered her gaze to the printed article again, as if still struggling to believe what it said. “So it really does happen, then?” she asked hesitantly. “People with superpowers — I mean, they talk about them on TV sometimes, and you see stories in the papers, but it always seems so… unreal.” “Ha! You think?” Chuuya snorted, then lifted himself several feet off the ground and, with the self-satisfaction of a peacock admiring its own reflection, spun midair like a ballet dancer. Never one to waste an opportunity to show off. Ginny watched, spellbound. “Amazing,” she murmured. “I told a psychologist about my flights once. And that woman, too… But they all said it was just my mind compensating for…” She nodded down at the plaid blanket over her lap. “You can’t walk?” “No. Spinal injury. I fell off a roof when I was seven. Or rather…” She glanced sideways at the article. “...I thought I fell off the roof, but in reality… in reality, I don’t remember. What do you want me to tell you about the flights? It was… pure joy, overwhelming and absolute. It felt so real. But in time, I convinced myself it was just a dream. That my ability to fly was no more real than Billy.” “As for your flying, I can’t say. But if we’re thinking of the same person, he’s sure as hell not imaginary,” Chuuya said. “You were friends?” I asked. “You remember him? What... was he like?” What he is now, I already knew — an absence in the shape of a boy, a void stitched into reality. “I’ll tell you the truth…” Ginny anxiously smoothed the crumpled article on her lap, though her gaze was fixed on the empty air before her. “…I don’t remember. Just like everyone else, I don’t remember anything about him. But you know, you can tell a lot by the shape of the emptiness left behind when something is taken from you… I know we were close — like siblings, probably, because I didn’t have any other friends when I was little. The psychologists said that was exactly why I invented him. But everyone kept telling me that before I… came back from the hospital in a wheelchair… I was cheerful, sociable, well-liked…” “You’re still a very sweet girl.” “I’m not fishing for compliments,” she said, a touch impatiently. “I’m explaining how I figured out Billy was real. I was sweet, and I wanted friends badly — but somehow, I had none? That doesn’t add up. It must mean I had one best friend, and he was all I needed. I didn’t invent Billy — I reconstructed him, piecing him together from the contradictions and missing fragments in my memory. I know I didn’t play alone as a child — because I know too many games that require two players. I remember playing with other kids — different kids — and people confirmed that, but when I tried to pin down the details, nothing lined up… I know he was smart. I had this children’s encyclopedia, ten volumes, and the one I remember best is the one about space and Earth’s history, about dinosaurs and all that, as if I read it over and over with someone, even though I never cared about space or dinosaurs myself. Or take this — I’m very good at arguing, even though I hate it and never trained for it. The right words just come to me. As if I used to argue all the time. Maybe even fight. He was probably arrogant. And touchy. And he knew how to wound with words. Because normally, I’m hard to upset, and I try not to hurt people… You understand what I mean? I remember nothing about Billy — and at the same time, I know so much about him. Even the smallest details — the food he liked, the toys we shared. All these years, I’ve been reconstructing him from these inconsistencies, from these gaps in my memory, from this… shape of emptiness.” “And his name? How do you know what he was called?” “The same way,” she shrugged. “I checked the records of the children who lived here and found the only one I couldn’t remember at all — and that’s how I knew it was him. William Blake. Billy. I couldn’t find out who adopted him, but I think that woman took him, not long after I got out of the hospital…” “A woman?” Chuuya perked up. “Tall, blonde, and about as lively as a funeral procession? Well, yeah, if the internet’s to be believed, Joanne did adopt the kid. That all checks out…” “The big sledge pulled up, and the person who was driving in it rose. It was a lady, tall and slender, shining white, her fur coat and her cap were all of snow. ‘That was a fine ride!’ she said, ‘but you mustn't freeze. Creep into my bearskin.’ She put him beside her in the sledge, and he felt as if he were sinking into a snow-drift. ‘Are you still cold?’ she asked, and kissed him on the forehead. Ugh! Her kiss was colder than ice, and struck straight to his heart —  which was already half-frozen…” It suddenly struck me — this fairy tale had never been about me. Not in Joanne’s eyes, at least. Never jump to conclusions until you understand exactly what your interlocutor is talking about. “Yes,” Ginny smiled faintly, “tall, blonde, and as lively as a funeral procession. Exactly. Her name was Joanne Ruskin. I remember her well — she talked to me a lot. At first, I even thought she wanted to adopt me. I was still young enough then to desperately want that… But after a while, she lost interest and started watching the other children instead.” “And tell me,” I asked, “do you remember what you talked about? You mentioned telling her about your flights… What about Billy?” “The flights, yes. Billy… I don’t know. I don’t remember. That was when he disappeared from my memory. Or rather, that was when the gaps disappeared — the ones from which I later reconstructed him. I know how strange all this sounds. I even made diagrams, like a detective, mapping out which memories were missing or didn’t make sense… They told me I was developing autism.” "You don’t have autism. You have a marvelously unyielding analytical mind." And, evidently, Ginny had loved that boy very much — though for what reason, I could not begin to fathom. "Yeah, gimme some of that brainpower, ‘cause I ain't getting a damn thing," Chuuya grumbled. "Joanne made everyone forget the kid? But why the hell would she? Or was it him? What the fuck even happened?" I didn’t understand it all just yet either, but I had my suspicions. So I asked: "Ginny, do you think Billy knew about your ability to fly? I realize you don’t remember, but judging by the picture you’ve managed to reconstruct, I’d say you have a rather comprehensive grasp of the situation." Ginny smiled, a luminous, guileless smile. "Come now, isn’t that obvious? Wouldn’t you have told your best friend something like that?" I smiled back — politely, emptily — wondering how to phrase that if my best friend were proud, temperamental, and prone to cruelty, then, well... probably not. "You just thought that he envied me, didn’t you?" she asked shrewdly. "I think so too. Although I doubt he would ever have admitted it. He was too proud for that. But yes, I do believe it. Sometimes I would take him with me, lift him up, but only rarely... I have dreams, sometimes, where I try to fly with someone else, and — well, you see, it’s difficult. To bear someone aloft when they weren’t meant to fly." She fell silent for a moment. I didn’t interrupt her — sooner or later, she would tell us everything. After years of silence, of running headlong into walls of doubt and disbelief, how could she not? "Sometimes," she said at last, her voice unsteady, "I wonder if he was the one who made me fall... But things like that don’t happen, right?" "Well, I hate to say it, but you just saw with your own eyes that superpowers are not some fairy tale. And actually, we came to England precisely because there is a person with the ability to take away other people's abilities. "So that means... This kid, Billy Blake — he's our, uh... villain?" Chuuya said uncertainly. If I had correctly pieced together what had happened all those years ago in the Summerisle orphanage — if I was right that the two things lost from Ginny’s mind, the forgotten friend and the erased ability, were connected — then all that we had believed to be Joanne’s doing was, in fact, the work of a boy named William Blake. Envy. Shame. Guilt. The wish to erase oneself from existence. Yes. That was precisely what the Equalizers whispered into people's ears. The essence of the Cursed Child — though I suspected no such Cursed Child existed at all. Billy had crippled his friend — and had come to hate powers in general. And first and foremost, his own. "Well, there we have it, my dear Watson. Case closed." Pity, I thought, that life is not a detective novel, and solving a crime doesn’t necessarily lead to a happy ending. Diagnosing the breakage is one thing; fixing it — restoring what has been lost — is another. Some things, once gone, can never be reclaimed. People, least of all. "But what’s Joanne got to do with this?" Chuuya wasn’t letting up. "She got powers of her own, or what? And what the hell does she want outta all this? Or are we just gonna say she’s simply evil and leave it at that?" I glanced at the date on the newspaper still resting on Ginny’s lap. "Let me guess," I said. "Joanne Ruskin arrived at Summerisle sometime in late October or early November?" "Yes," Ginny said slowly. "That’s when I was discharged from the hospital... But how did you—" She, too, looked down at the article. The date read October. Her face brightened with understanding. Clever girl, as I said. "From everything I’ve observed, I suspect Joanne never had any powers of her own," I said. "She despises the gifted. She interacts with her son daily without fear of being nullified by a careless touch. Instead, she possesses intelligence — one I regretfully admit is formidable — and a dangerous ideology, one that worships ‘equality.’ And by ‘equality,’ she means the eradication of anyone even slightly exceptional. In that sense, yes, she is ‘simply evil’ — though to her, of course, it’s the other way around. In her mind, we’re the villains, not her. Maybe she wants revenge for her husband and children... But I'm almost certain that the story about their deaths is exactly what it seems, that is, a fake. More likely, Joanne, like I once did, stumbled across this article and became intrigued by its implications. Notice — she didn’t arrive at the orphanage right after Ginny’s fall, but only after the article came out. She must have figured out almost immediately that Billy was behind the accident. And suddenly, in her hands, she had a weapon — a force as devastating as an atomic bomb." "Are you saying that woman was bad?" Ginny asked hesitantly. "I was so happy when I realized she had adopted Billy. Even if we’d fought, I still wanted him to have a home. I wanted to write to him, but I couldn’t find her address. Do you know how he’s doing? Is he... is he all right?" "Well," I said carefully, "Billy still lives with Mrs. Ruskin. He, um... assists her a great deal in her work." "Oh, for fuck’s sake, just say it already," Chuuya snapped in disgust. Ever heard of a noble lie, Chuuya? I thought. No? Well, here’s your truth, then. I shut my eyes for a moment. Then, in my most cheerful tone, I said: "I don’t think he’s all right. I think he wishes he’d never been born. And the only reason he hasn’t offed himself is that he’s long since forgotten people can even want things. Thank you, Ginny. You’ve been a tremendous help." Chuuya elbowed me sharply in the ribs, shooting me a pointed look. I sighed and, against my better judgment, added: "You know, Ginny... there is a chance — not a large one, mind you, but a chance — that your ability to fly could be restored." "No," Ginny said. "Even reading this article for the tenth time, I still can’t quite believe I was ever one of them... one of you. It feels so distant. Like a dream. The most wonderful dream in the world. But almost forgotten." She smiled — small, wistful. "Thank you for trying to comfort me. You seem like very good people. But I know... I just know — I will never fly again."   ***   We arrived in Greenwich by boat, for Chuuya had insisted on combining our visit to the orphanage with a scenic excursion down the Thames. (For the record, I never did make it to the observatory — we really had more pressing matters at hand.) The return trip was by bus, which meandered through a labyrinth of sleepy residential districts, seemingly determined to stretch our journey to Soho to the most agonizing possible length. I made a mental note that next time we ought to rent a car. I didn’t have a license, but Chuuya drove as if he were auditioning for Formula One — albeit with a certain cavalier disregard for the concept of traffic regulations. …Next time. That stupid phrase again. As if stuck on a loop. There would be no next time. Chuuya slept against my shoulder, peaceful and heavy, like a child. His ability only deactivated when I was near — my hand, at that moment, was resting lightly against the skin of his wrist. It couldn’t be pleasant, I supposed, to be perpetually assailed by the world around you. Tainted Sorrow, indeed. No wonder he drank like a fish. Then again, we live with sight, with smell, with sound at all times. One adapts. I recalled how we had attempted to get some sleep earlier that morning, back at the hotel, at 6 a.m. That had been a grave miscalculation. The bed had been wide enough to accommodate two with ample space between us — ample enough, perhaps, to lay a sword in the middle, as in those old legends — but that did little to make things easier. I had lain there, breathing evenly, feigning sleep; Chuuya had sighed and shifted restlessly. And even then, I had thought of his ability — had known he couldn’t sleep, not only because of me but because of those two figures huddled by the radiator in the next room. It might have helped if I had pulled him close, but I hadn’t dared. Because I didn’t know what would happen then. And there had been, I was fairly certain, significantly less than fifty percent of a joke in his remark about the lustful soldier and the cloistered nun (or however he had phrased it). Sex. Chuuya liked sex. He wanted me anywhere, anytime. I wouldn’t have called myself asexual; I could deconstruct the mechanics of any given pornographic scenario with clinical precision, deducing which neural buttons it was designed to push, and I could tune my mind accordingly. But applied to real life, sex had only ever meant one person. The same sharp, pale face, often furrowed in irritation, smug, sometimes kind, but always so vibrantly, infuriatingly alive. The same eyes, clear and cutting, like autumn sky in its purest shade of blue. The same small hands with those thin, almost adolescent fingers. Sex could mean many things — an expression of camaraderie, a means of asserting control, a tool to wheedle my way into his good graces when I needed something, or a desperate hunger to momentarily become part of all that I admired in him. But whatever it was, it had always carried, for me, a taint of dishonesty, as though it were something I had no right to claim. Half of the Mafia fantasized about Chuuya — yet he wanted to sleep with me. This greedy, street-raised boy, who only ever craved the finest, the most expensive, the most exquisite, had chosen me, a man who was about as far removed from a brand-new Lamborghini as one could possibly get. A grotesque absurdity. I needed to sever this foolish, perilous, agonizing bond once and for all. And I had finally devised a way to do it. The bus window was streaked with rain — London, as ever, true to itself — but I felt like for the first time, I finally saw everything with impeccable clarity, as if the clouds had parted and the sun had laid bare every stone, every leaf, every fragile and inevitable thing.   ***   The prisoners in the hotel might have had a better rest than we did — by the time we returned, they were still asleep, huddled together by the radiator. Though as soon as they heard our arrival, they stirred awake. I replaced Wilde’s bandage, untied one of his hands from the radiator, offered them food, and so on. My dear former mentor Mori, no doubt, would have inquired whether all this stirred any sordid inclinations in me. Alas, I fear not. Of course, I’ve read about the Stanford prison experiment, and as the Mafia’s chief executioner, I’ve had ample opportunity to thoroughly explore my own tastes in that fascinating domain, with the scrupulous curiosity of a true scientist. But no. The work of a jailer bores me. As, incidentally, do most occupations, objects, and people. And yet, when time is limited, “cruel” strategies, however distasteful, prove far more efficient than “benevolent” ones: small humiliations shorten the distance and loosen tongues. Anne, who had remained silent since last evening and hadn’t touched her food, at last deigned to lower her electric barrier when she needed to use the restroom. And after that, she even stooped to conversation. “I know what you’re trying to do…” she said quietly, drilling her gaze into the steaming plate of spaghetti before her. “You want to win us over to your side. I see now. You’re one of those who think abilities are a blessing.” “My opinion on the matter needn’t concern you — you’re entitled to your own,” I replied with a generous smile, twirling carbonara around my fork. “My own? As if you ever asked for it. I’d rather… I’d rather have died.” “We’ve established that you don’t actually want to die. You want to live. Which, incidentally, is more than can be said for every person who, for one reason or another, still draws breath but merely drags on an existence… And how is it that I didn’t ask your opinion? I gave you a choice — life or death — and you made your decision.” The melting parmesan crust on the spaghetti was delightful. I should let Chuuya order food more often — this was far better than McDonald’s. “Of course, I want to live!” Anne snapped, her voice thick with anger. Tears welled in her eyes. Finally, some emotion. “But I don’t want to live with this! Stop acting like you’ve done me some kind of favor…” “Your ability is your survival tool,” I said with a shrug. “What happens to a bird that maims its own wings? It dies.” “I never asked for this tool! I don’t want to be like this,” she burst into sobs. “It’s repulsive to any normal person… People look at me and see something monstrous. They’ve hated me ever since I was a child. I just want to be normal… I want society to accept me…” “Let’s clarify. By ‘society,’ whom exactly do you mean? Are you concerned with the opinion of each and every one of London’s nine million inhabitants?” “No, but… I want… to find friends.” “And who are ‘friends’?” “Friends… well, people you like… people with shared interests, shared goals…” “So the children who set your hair on fire when you were little — did you share interests with them, too? Did I understand that correctly?” “Oh, for God’s sake… Maybe there were good ones among them, but they just didn’t dare step in! How could I know, if I never had the chance to look closely?” “Fair point. Was there anyone among them you actually wanted to look closely at?” “No, but…” “How many people have you met in your life whom you’d genuinely want to call a friend?” I asked with interest, finishing my carbonara. “Perhaps Wilde-san is one of them? And I dare say Mr. Nakahara belongs in that number as well — he did leave an impression on you when you first met him in the art room… whatever you might think of him now.” Anne scowled and said nothing. “What was it that you liked about him?” I continued. “He stood out, didn’t he? Beautiful. Like a unicorn among a herd of horses. And what is beauty, anyway? You have an interest in art, so you must know that beauty standards have varied wildly across cultures and eras. If you strip away all the incidental factors, beauty is strength. It’s brilliance. It’s the fearlessness to be oneself, to be exceptional. Have you noticed that both of the people you liked share these traits? And what of the others — those I don’t know, whom you, too, would call friends? I’d wager they also refuse to blend into the crowd. They strive to be better. Better, Anne, not worse. Those children hated you and your sisters not because something was wrong with you, but because they feared and envied you. Because you were stronger.” “Shut up!… I don’t want to be strong or better than others — I don’t need any of that. I just want people to leave me and my sisters alone. I want to draw. I want a beautiful house. A cat. Someone to love. I want to travel the world. I just… want to be normal…” Here we go again. “That’s not true. You don’t want to be normal. You want to be happy. Those are entirely different things.” “I’m done talking to you. Your words are lies… all lies! These thoughts are wicked. My father told us about the devil — how he deceives people with words that feed their arrogance…” “Oh, I don’t doubt it. They told you that self-worth is a sin, and self-sacrifice for others is the highest virtue. That devaluing your own life is an act of heroism — isn’t that what they’ve been drilling into you all this time? There are many teachings on morality, Anne, and believe me, none of them are particularly reliable. The only true moral rule, the only truth, is the very choice I offered you — life or death. And in choosing life, you affirm that your greatest value is yourself. There are no wicked thoughts, Anne. But the refusal to think — that is true evil. Are you quite sure you’re not hungry? It’s just spaghetti, not an apple from the Tree of Knowledge.” Anne, true to her word, remained stubbornly silent. Wilde, however, finally interjected: “You think these ideas are anything new? Every criminal rationalizes the same way…” “That, Wilde-san, is what’s known as an ad hominem argument,” I noted. Finally, a conversation worth having. “It’s bad to put one’s life above all else simply because criminals do it? You might as well argue that breathing or seeing is evil because criminals have lungs and eyes.” Wilde frowned in thought. Watching someone’s mind work — now, that’s a truly pleasant sight. No sarcasm intended. “You speak to Anne of individualism, of her being the highest value, of free will. But that means she has the right to make her own choices!” “Her choice was the wrong one.” “No matter what it was! You claim her choice was wrong and impose your own! Don’t you see the contradiction? You preach free will while trampling hers. You know, in Avalon, there’s a guy who…” “Yes, I’ve had the pleasure of speaking with the young man.” "He raped sixteen girls," Wilde said sharply. "And you are no different from him." I was almost offended. Not that I had engaged in this debate to defend my point of view — my motives lay elsewhere entirely — but I had spoken sincerely. I had truly sought to determine whether I could be a decent person without draping myself in borrowed moralities. Yet at this moment, I rather doubted Odasaku would have called me such a thing. "I did not rape Miss Brontë, for heaven’s sake. I treated her as I consider right and good within my ethical framework. Besides, the comparison with a rapist — yet another ad hominem attack. I even know where you picked up such a rhetorical flourish," I remarked, recalling the "Hitler Youth" dialogue. "You argue that imposing one’s will upon another is inherently wrong, for that is the way of abusers. And yet, is it not also the way of a mother who snatches a stone from the grasp of a child before he can choke upon it? The child might cry if the stone is taken away from him, but do you doubt that the mother is right...? Is it not also the way of a teacher who—" "For fuck’s sake, stop spewing this garbage! Anne ain't a child, and you sure as hell ain't her mother or teacher! You’re just a twisted bastard who thinks he’s got the right to make decisions for others ‘cause he’s wiser, older, and ‘better’ than them. Ethical framework, my ass. What you’re talking about is lawlessness. Your whole damn ‘ethics’ is just might makes right. You think you can do whatever the hell you want?" "By and large, yes," I replied. "I can, and I do. Quite a pleasant sensation." "You’re not even going to argue…?" I sighed. "Ordinarily, I agree that people have the right to make their own decisions, even when those decisions strike me as spectacularly foolish. In fact, they almost always do. But usually, I have little interest in the affairs of others. This, however, is an intersection of interests, would you not agree? We are at war. It seems rather naïve to be surprised that, in war, it is the law of the strong that prevails. Anne stood with my enemy, and as such, she was a threat to me." Wilde processed this, then flared up. "That’s absurd! You’re the one who turned her into a threat! …I get it now. You’re just insane. Completely lost in your own labyrinth of self-serving, pseudo-logical nonsense." "Enough!" Anne’s voice rang sharp with fury. "Enough of talking about me as if I’m not here. I am here. And I — I don’t want anyone deciding for me anymore! My father, my sisters, Joanne, you... I don’t want it. I want to decide for myself!" At her words, two tendrils of crackling electricity split from her barrier and lashed at me. Until now, Anne had only ever shielded herself with that thing, never once striking out. Whether that was due to cowardice or kindness, I could not say. But the moment those tendrils made contact with me, both they and her barrier itself dissolved, vanishing like a desert mirage. "But that is precisely what we are discussing, Anne," I murmured, gentle but unyielding. "Either you possess the awareness to understand what you want and what side you stand upon, or you do not. Your highest value is yourself — but like any value, one must earn the right to hold oneself in esteem, and one must be able to defend it. You have all the weapons you need. But if you refuse to seek, to create, and to fight for your own purpose, then you will remain forever a victim or a tool in the hands of others. A person who strangles their own individuality and strength is like a driverless machine — doomed either to rust or to land in a ditch." She stared at me, blinking rapidly, lips trembling. I suspected she had just now realized that her barrier had never truly stood a chance against me — I could have done anything I pleased from the start. Then her gaze, cold and contemptuous, swept over both me and the untouched, cooling plate of spaghetti before her. Without a word, she turned to stare at the wall. What a stubborn girl. And foolish, too. In truth, I had little interest in her opinion, just as her refusal to eat was of no concern to me. My task had merely been to plant the seed of doubt. I had no illusions — they would hold fast to their convictions, to Joanne. That was precisely what I needed. When Wilde saw that Anne’s ability had failed against me, his face took on a look of astonishment far too raw for someone who supposedly already knew everything about me. "So that’s it. It wasn’t illusions or trickery. You… You’re like Madame Joanne!" "In certain respects, yes," I smiled. And there it was. Now they truly knew. Everything was proceeding as planned. In her anger, when she lashed out at me with those electric tendrils, one of them — harmless to both her and myself — brushed against the rope that bound her to the radiator, leaving a faint scorch mark. I pretended not to notice. She, most likely, hadn’t noticed either. She had always wielded her Wuthering Heights as a shield, occasionally, reluctantly, as a weapon at another’s command, but never — never — as a means of freeing herself. People rarely break free from the patterns they have lived by, and she was certainly no intellectual luminary. Wilde-san, truth be told, was not much sharper, but at the very least, he was observant. In about a minute, her ability would return. And then…   ***   When I left the two of them alone — exiting the sitting room and shutting the bedroom door behind me — I found Chuuya sprawled on the bed, lying on his stomach, propped up on his elbows, now quite definitively scrolling through Instagram pictures. A bottle of Bordeaux, brought in along with the spaghetti, stood half-emptied on the nightstand beside him. “Still can’t figure out whether you’re a fucking lunatic…” he muttered without turning around. I suddenly took note of how the copper strands of his hair, neatly gathered into a loose knot, melted into the pale curve of his nape, and how tightly his leather pants clung to those narrow hips. “…Or what?” I prompted. “Huh?” “You said: ‘whether you’re a fucking lunatic.’ What was the other option?” He sat up, shut his laptop, placed it carefully on the nightstand, and only then finally turned to face me. “Well, obviously: or you’re not.” “Did you like my speech?” I poured myself some wine and settled beside him. “Something like that,” he admitted. “But that part about the criminal, the rapist, and this whole ‘might makes right’ thing… That was trickier.” “Oh?” I said, genuinely intrigued. “Funny, because when I said all that, I was thinking about you. That’s your worldview, not mine.” Judging by his utterly perplexed expression, Chuuya had never before considered the possibility that he possessed a worldview at all. “It’s Objectivism,” I clarified. “Rational self-interest. The idea that your individuality and your precious free will are the only things that truly matter. If you ever decide to look into it, stick to a summary — those books have more filler than the entire Atlantic Ocean.” “Nah. I don’t need books to know what I think. But now I’m curious — do you actually believe that? About individuality and its value?” “I believe nothing of the sort. It’s merely one of the many ethical frameworks people use to justify their meaningless scuttling about on this planet and their assorted varieties of bastardry.” “Got a counterargument to it?” he persisted. Seriously — Chuuya Nakahara wanted to argue about ethics? “It’s complicated…” I began. “Bullshit. You could answer that with a yes or no. It’s as simple as hell.” “You always want everything to be simple.” “Damn right I do. Yes or no. Truth or lies. That’s how it is. You’re the one who’s always making things complicated.” Our shoulders touched. I found myself recalling, vividly, how that very morning we had lain in this bed, mere inches apart, both failing to sleep; how his face had gleamed pale against the pillow, almost luminous in the darkness; how, later, he had slept against my shoulder all the way from Greenwich, his eyelids twitching beneath their gossamer-thin skin, veined with delicate blue, framed by soft, reddish lashes; how an unwelcome pang of something like pity had struck me at the sight of them — and how, in that moment, I had understood with absolute clarity that this needed to end. “In our situation…” I said quietly, “I suppose this system fits best.” He smiled in triumph, as if my answer actually meant something to him. “A unicorn among a herd of horses?” he echoed. “Yeah. You know, small one. Like in The Last Unicorn.” A sudden, inexplicable urge seized me — to wipe away the stain of wine clinging to the corner of his mouth. “So,” I murmured, “what exactly were those fantasies of yours about the two of us sharing a hotel room?” The stain proved stubborn. I took my time. He caught my fingers deftly between his lips. I watched, transfixed, as my fingertips disappeared into his mouth, as his tongue, hot and slick, curled around them in slow, deliberate spirals — almost like the whorls of an ammonite shell — reaching all the way to the very base… Then his hand settled over my crotch, pressing down through the fabric, gripping my cock with a certain unhurried confidence. “Well, would you look at that — the flag still raises above the castle sometimes?” Chuuya exclaimed, his surprise deliberately exaggerated. I winced in pained exasperation. “Every time you open your mouth, you transform from a princess into a toad.” “Yeah? ’Cause judging by your hard-on, you don’t seem too unhappy about it.” I surrendered and kissed him — primarily to shut him up. That was when he shoved me back against the headboard, straddled my lap, and kissed me himself — fierce, reckless, as if this were our last kiss (which, in all likelihood, it was). His passion had a brutality that eclipsed any beating. When I had closed the bedroom door earlier, I had envisioned this unfolding quite differently. I had imagined long, languid kisses, imagined slowly undressing him, imagined the careful reverence with which I might have traced every inch of his body, from the sharp ridges of his collarbones to the sculpted arcs of his ankles. That it would all be… well… normal. Chuuya could, on rare occasions, be deceptively gentle in bed — submissive even, silent, like with that finger-sucking… But never for long. There always came a moment when I found my hands wrenched behind my back, when those sharp, demonic teeth sank into my nape with feral intent, when his deceptively slender fingers pinned me to the sheets with a strength that left bruises. Tenderness was not his language. Neither was patience. And as for normalcy — well, we all knew how that ship had sailed. Imagining a tender, measured coupling with Chuuya was about as plausible as picturing the two of us lying side by side in matching glass coffins, like some tragic lovers in a macabre fairy tale. And frankly, I had no desire to find out what he would have to say about that little fantasy. Chuuya and the aesthetic of double suicide? There was no one in the world less suited to it. So instead of tenderness and calm, there was a tangled mass of shame, guilt, anger, and desperation. The taste of blood in my mouth. And worst of all, the fact that I wasn’t just responding — I had never wanted him more. It was wrong. This was not what I had planned. But my hands, possessed of a will entirely their own, seized him by the ass and dragged him closer, grinding my so-called castle flag against its equal and opposite counterpart. The weight of him against my thighs felt so familiar, so right. And those same treacherous hands — so disloyal — reached up to strip away those ridiculous, alien glasses, tugged at the knot in his copper hair, let it unravel beneath my fingers, combing through it as he liked, like I had done so many times before. So familiar, as if the last time had been only yesterday, when in reality… Then those hands peeled up both of his fashionably distressed tank tops at once, running down his spine, vertebra by vertebra, like the keys of an instrument meant for my hands alone (which, of course, was far from the truth — I was well aware that plenty of other hands had played these notes, and perhaps far cleaner, far more worthy hands than mine). He arched back, like in a tango, and I managed to catch one of his small, pink nipples between my teeth before he folded forward again, reclaiming my mouth. His tongue found the chip in my right canine, lingering there, licking over it like a man registering the unfamiliar object in his own home — double-checking, as if to confirm that yes, last time we… well, yes. That hadn’t been there before. Amazing that he remembered. “You broke my tooth,” I murmured into his mouth, perversely satisfied. “When you punched me. Under the cryptomeria tree.” “Like you’ve never broken anything of mine, asshole,” he snapped, biting my lip — hard. Between kisses, I watched his face from below, those eyes impossibly blue, blue as an autumn sky — too beautiful, I couldn’t look away. I traced the sharp, feline sweep of his cheekbones, slick with sweat, his long, bristly lashes damp and clinging together. Then my treacherous hands again — unzipping his obscenely creaking leather pants, slipping inside his underwear, gripping him, hard and rough, squeezing his ass (he made a soft sound, almost like a puppy’s whimper), clutching, claiming — mine, mine, mine. My Chuuya. Enough self-deception. Not mine at all, the cold voice in my head reminded me. His own, someone else’s, anyone’s — but not mine. An imaginary friend, too good for the likes of me. A home that had never existed. “Like this,” he breathed, helpless. “No shower, no lube… Condoms are in the drawer, but we don’t have to…” His breath hitched. “Fuck, I thought we’d never again—” I clamped my hand over his mouth. Chuuya, don’t make this worse. He bit down on my palm, and I gasped at the spike of pleasure. Desire coiled through my veins, but with it came a bitter lucidity — like the smoke of a house burning to the ground, a house that had never truly stood, a house to which there was no return. If not for that bitter aftertaste, I might have done exactly as he begged — turned him over, yanked those half-unfastened pants down the rest of the way, and screwed him. Telling, wasn’t it, that I had no word for this act in my own lexicon — had to borrow from his, because everything about him existed just beyond the borders of my vocabulary. But instead, filled with some hollowed-out, aching absence, I found his hands where they gripped my shoulders, pinning me to the headboard. Without breaking the kiss, I seized his narrow wrists, pressing them together as if bound by invisible cuffs, then slid my fingers inside his gloves — just like that, without removing them — mine, my Chuuya. My palms covered his, and when he didn’t pull away but instead squeezed my hands in return, it felt like the most obscene thing we had ever done. In that moment, he seemed to belong to me completely — body, mind, ability, soul. I knew it was a lie. And so it hurt, and it was bitter, and it was— “Fucking amazing,” Chuuya panted, forehead slick and burning against my temple.