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Rutile sighed, as they always did when nuisances crept into their routine. It wasn’t like them to forget their equipment at someone else’s house but matters with Alex and Chrys were always... peculiar. Ridiculously so. To the point that Rutile, somehow still baffled by the peaks that human stupidity could reach, ended up sidetracked in an attempt to finish their business as quick as possible.
In their defense, last time had been a feat. Rutile had tried not to keep an account of all the things Chrysoberyl’s questionable kinks had gotten Alexandrite, and their asshole, into, but they had also been blessed with an excellent memory for details and now it was playing against them. They had thought that fucking in a barn on a bed of straw surrounded by pig shit and laughing chickens would be enough, but apparently Chrys got it up to being in danger on a boat at sea. The two morons had come out of that with the whole shebang: dehydration, sunstroke, burns, saline water in places where mother nature had not intended… It would have been hysterical if not for the extra work, but at least Rutile was getting paid.
Brushing their hair off their face, they knocked on Alex and Chryso’s door.
“Hello?”
They knocked again. It looked like no one was home. Rutile shrugged, lowered the doorknob, and simply walked inside the one-room apartment. They had seen the two spouses in enough compromising positions to give a damn anymore.
They walked to the bed, looking for the bag they had left the day before, when something caught their eye. A booklet was peeking out from beneath one of the pillows, as if someone had tried to hide it. Rutile picked it up. It was a heavy journal-looking book with a burgundy cover and no title. When Rutile started flipping through the pages, even their eyes had to widen in surprise.
It was, in fact, a journal— densely written by Chrysoberyl’s hand seeing how Rutile could actually make out the words. Starting from an entry dating back to April 25, 1933, it consisted of pages upon pages of meticulous records of all of Chrysoberyl and Alexandrite’s sexual adventures.
A stealthy blowjob among the high shelves of a university library, quick sex in the backstage of a concert hall right before one of Chrysoberyl’s performances, the barn accident, with precise mentions of straw, a (failed) attempt to persuade Alexandrite to use lamp oil as lube, and how Chrysoberyl got the idea in the first place. Everything was thoroughly described, with dates and notes, and the occasional doodle or poem. There was even mention of Chrys and Alex fucking on Bluezo’s house’s roof, which, Rutile thought, certainly explained some of Bluezo’s hostility.
Suddenly, as Rutile kept flipping through the pages, a leaflet fell out of the diary. They picked it up and their eyes were greeted with a long, long list of places and situations in a handful of different languages. Some places at the top of the paper were marked off, there were arrows with additional annotations pointing at some others: “try again,” “I love my Lexi so much,” “east side next time”…
There it was, halfway through the list: “at sea.” Marked off with yesterday’s date and with a note next to it: “what an adventure.”
The bucket list of Chrysoberyl’s ‘to fuck’ places went on and on and included some situations that Rutile, thankfully, had never heard about. The rest of the unmarked situations, however, did little to restore their already nonexistent faith in humanity.
Chrysoberyl must have meant to write down their last adventure too, but something must have come up and they had quickly hidden away their journal for later. For a second, Rutile wondered if Alex knew. The diary was written in Swedish, which they weren’t sure Alex could speak— and that Rutile knew just because of their grandmother and what little they could piece together from their combined knowledge of English and German. Still, what did it matter? What mattered was that Rutile had found a journal that Chrys apparently didn’t want other people to find. That Rutile could read it. And that now they could use this in whatever way they wanted.
Chrysoberyl was peacefully flipping through a booklet of poems when Rutile approached them.
Maybe they should have noticed that something was up from the way Rutile's eyes seemed to be less dead inside than usual. Or maybe from their pace: relaxed, almost carefree.
But the afternoon was lovely and the spring too green for Chrys’ spirit to question humanity, so when Rutile greeted them with a “God eftermiddag,” squeezing their shoulder, Chrysoberyl’s eyes widened in fear.
“I- how curious. You speak Swedish,” they said.
“Ja,” Rutile said, “lovely language.”
“Yeah.”
“Ideal for some poetic shit. Of the romantic kind.”
“Yes,” their fear was unrelentingly shifting into horror.
“What are you reading?” Rutile asked.
“Dickinson.”
“Wonderful. I too happened to stumble upon some enlightening reading earlier today.”
“You did?“ Chrys said, almost too afraid to ask.
“But as interesting as it was,” Rutile went on, “I require a different sort of book to advance in my craft. I wrote you a list,” they said fishing a piece of paper out of their pocket.
Chrysoberyl grabbed it gingerly. It was a long list of medicine book. A list of expensive medicine books.
“Come on Rutile, you can’t really think-“
“See, there is one key difference between our two lists. This one, I couldn’t give a damn if someone sees it. But of course, only you can make that choice for yours. Maybe I miscalculated.”
Chrysoberyl stared at Rutile for a couple more seconds. The doctor was the picture of serenity, as if they weren’t blackmailing a friend but simply stating a fact. Chrys’ eyes slowly lowered to the piece of paper still in their hands.
“Alright,” they said.
“Tack,” Rutile thanked them, slapping their shoulder with little enthusiasm. “See you around.”
Chrysoberyl had never hated their father’s language so much.
Building up the money they needed for the purchase had been an excruciating fit. Chrysoberyl wasn’t used to running up and down the town, but that was exactly what they had ended up doing, looking for people to sell books or jewelry to. They were an artist, an intellectual at heart, they weren’t fit for these physical endeavors. Or for math, for the matter. But in the end, they had managed to do what Rutile had not so kindly asked them without alerting Lexi.
As a second form of precaution, Chrysoberyl had decided to switch languages and start writing their journal in Russian. It was risky, because Alexandrite could speak it too, but Chrys was sure that, because of the different alphabet, no one else could ever decipher it.
Too bad for those pages Rutile had already read, but most of what was written on them was history, dating back to before the two spouses had set foot in this town. It made for poor blackmailing material, Chrysoberyl hoped. So they carefully made a new list in Russian, transcribing dates, doodles and all, burned the old one— even if not without regret— and worked hard to find a new hiding spot.
About a week after their books had arrived, Rutile approached them again. This time, they had the audacity to come knocking on their door, while Chrysoberyl was busy composing.
“Hello,” Chrys greeted Rutile coldly.
“Hi,” the doctor replied, “I’ll be quick. I need a new stethoscope. I don’t trust these simpletons. Go to the city and get me one from an actual professional.”
“Excuse me?” Chrys replied, “I’m not sure I understand.”
“I think you do,” Rutile said.
“I want you to know that what you did was extremely disrespectful. Especially in Lexi’s regards. These things are… private. But I shall let it slip in the name of our friendship. Now I must ask you to please get out.”
“Friendship?” Rutile raised an eyebrow, “really?”
“I don’t care about what you’ve read. It’s in the past. Please leave us alone.”
“That’s such a shame. You’d think Lexi’s own spouse would be more concerned about their personal safety. I’ve heard terrible things about sexual encounters in the caves down the shore.”
Chrysoberyl’s face lost color. What rutile was mentioning had happened two days before.
“Luck might have blessed your pale ass this time, but an accident could happen any time,” the doctor went on, “and without the proper tools who knows how much poor Lexi would suffer for your selfishness.”
“How?” Chrysoberyl whispered.
“You have a very, very pretty handwriting. My ex’s was such a nightmare to read. So, I trust we have a deal?”
Chrysoberyl nodded, unable to utter a single word.
“Neat. Keep writing. You have a talent for literature,” and with that, Rutile up and left.
It was too easy.
Chrysoberyl and Alexandrite’s house was small and Chrys was so terrified of anyone else finding their journal that they didn’t even try hiding it outside. Four walls, one room. They could at least try to make it fun for Rutile.
The only challenge they had found was that Chrysoberyl was keen on thinking that switching languages would help them solve all of their problems. As if having to learn something new had ever stopped Rutile.
Latin had been easy, it felt like an insult to Rutile’s education. Maybe Chrysoberyl had really been too desperate to think about anything better.
“I need you to borrow some fascicles from the hospital’s archive,” Rutile had told them. The nerd put down their coffee and glared at Rutile. That had been the first time Rutile had seen any semblance of intensity on their face, they had to give it to them.
“I’m not your errand boy,” Chrys said.
“’For me I claim your nectar. Between my lips I embrace of the gladiolus the piercing shaft-‘” Rutile quoted, in perfect Latin, a poem from three days prior.
“Alright, alright.”
No place was safe for Chrysoberyl, or for their journal.
They could hide it under a loose board in the pavement, switch to more obscure languages, a different alphabet… Rutile would find it, get their hands on the proper dictionary, and greet Chrys a couple of days later in yet another language.
“Hi, friend.” Greek, in front of the school.
“How are you doing?” Gaelic, at Euclase’s.
“Wonderful day, isn’t it?” Polish— and with Alex present.
Alexandrite, who was the closest thing the town had to a bookkeeper, was quick to notice Rutile’s sudden interest in languages. In the last month alone, they had asked them for four different dictionaries. They confronted Chrys about it at dinner, fascinated but almost afraid to lose their record as town’s prime nerd.
“Chrys, did you notice anything weird with Rutile lately?”
Chrysoberyl’s grip on their fork wavered. Now that Alex thought about it, they too had been acting weird. Always busy, always working, and not asking Alex to embark in as many and as questionable sexual endeavors as before. Not that Alex had much reason to complain about the latter.
“No?” Chrys smiled, “Everything seems perfectly fine to me.”
“Like, for example,” Alex went on, “They told me they were studying Polish. Why, I asked, and they went ‘Oh, you know. A general curiosity.’ And don’t get me wrong, I’m all in for general curiosities, but Polish? Really? So I told them you knew Polish because of your mum and everything, I said, ‘hey maybe Chrys can help you’ and they said they’d keep that in mind. Did they come asking for help by any chance?”
“No.”
“Damn, we could have made some money. Writing letters and teaching German can only do so much. Chrys, are you okay?”
“Why are you asking, love?”
“You’re… paler than usual.”
“It must be the heat.”
“Yeah…” Alexandrite mumbled, crossing their hands under their chin.
“Chrysoberyl,” they said. Chrys’ eyes jolted up at the mention of their full name, “This had nothing to do with the sex journal I told you to stop writing when we were still in uni and that I know for a fact you kept writing because your kinky, little head is poetic and stupid just like that, right?”
“What? Lexi, what are you even talking about? You know I don’t do that kind of… stuff anymore. We’re all grownups.”
“Chrys, if you had any talent for deception whatsoever, you’d be too powerful for mother nature to have birthed you. What the fuck is going on?”
“Lexi,” Chrys whispered, it sounded like a plea, “I think I have made a terrible mistake.”
After a quick explanation, Chrys’ eyes were glistening with tears while Alex’s fists were clenched in rage. As much as they could despise Rutile at this very moment, they had to agree with what they always said about human stupidity.
“I can’t believe you’re as stupid as you’re handsome,” they mumbled, “I mean, I knew when I married you, but also you’re so much stupider than what I thought you’d be.”
“I love you too-“ Chrys started.
“That wasn't a compliment!”
“Sorry.”
“Alright. Well, seems like my destiny is to have my dignity crushed by your stupid ideas. I’ll make peace with that but you,” Alex said pointing their index in Chrys’ direction, “you’re stopping with that journal right now.”
“That’s an attack on my freedom of artistic expression,” Chrys protested, “I can write whatever I want.”
“But then you don’t seem to like the consequences. So, you have two choices if you want to stop being Rutile’s errand boy. You stop writing that shit down or we stop having sex.”
Chrysoberyl gasped.
“You can’t really mean that,” they said.
“I sure as hell can. Effective right now: you’re sleeping on the couch.”
“Lexi, no! You can’t do this to me, not you.”
“What do you want me to do? Congratulate you on how many languages you can use to praise my dick? This is serious.”
“I know, but maybe there is something we can do…”
“I already told you. Now promise.”
In the end, Chrysoberyl never promised, but Alex’s plan worked anyway. Chastised in both the mind and the body, Chrysoberyl’s poetic muse came to a forced halt when it met with the unstoppable force of their spouse’s ultimatum.
With no new material to draw inspiration from, Chrysoberyl dragged themselves around town like a soulless body, helping this or that friend and working on this or that project without processing it, letting the days pass them by in a haze. The only strength they had left they saved up for glaring at Rutile which, Rutile must admit, Chrysoberyl had gotten considerably better at.
On their part, Rutile let them be. They could always retort to old entries to send Chrys to buy this or that tool, but there was little fun in it. When they started noticing that the diary was not been updated anymore, they thought that Chrys had finally realized it was best to give up the craft, but a quick look at the desperate way Chrysoberyl glanced at Alexandrite filled Rutile in about everything they needed to know.
No matter how many times they flipped through Chrysoberyl’s diary, now, they could only find old entries. A third player had walked in and ruined their game.
It was to be expected. Rutile was surprised that it had lasted as long as it did in the first place. For a brief time, they wondered if they should persuade Alex to lift their sex strike. After all, most human beings need that kind of release from time to time, some more often than others. But while Chrysoberyl could do nothing but glare at Rutile like an amateur who had just discovered that the world was not constantly painted in rainbows, Alex could very well punch them with their scholar noodle arms— and Rutile wasn’t sure they cared that much about their errand boy.
As they pondered over these very important matters, someone knocked on their door for a change and the nerd themselves stomped their way to Rutile's desk.
“Lexi,” Rutile greeted them, “Do I even need to ask? What am I gonna find this time, rocks?”
“You know we’re both on a chastity diet. Thank you very much.”
“You are? Oh dear, making up for your sins before Easter?”
Alexandrite didn’t pay them any mind. They leaned towards Rutile, hands on their desk.
“I don’t think Chrys will be able to resist any longer,” they said, “They’re… a simple soul.”
“So what?” Rutile replied, toying with a scalpel, “They’re gonna pull you in an alley at night and have their way with you? Do I need to prepare?”
“What’s wrong with you?” Alex slammed their hands on the table, “Who the fuck goes around barging into people’s homes to read their diaries?”
“Let’s be frank here. I don’t need to read Chrysoberyl’s purple prose to know exactly how many hairs you have on your dick. These eyes have seen enough shit. But if that journal still tickles any remaining sense of shame you have left then I applaud you.”
“Haven’t you had enough of that purple prose? You could have just… taken it. You’d have your gay porn and Chrys would make themselves a new journal. Easy as that.”
“It’s the game I like.”
“Son of a bitch.”
“And seeing Chrys’ polished ass run across town like that.”
“I’m tired Rutile.”
“And horny.”
“That’s not the point!” Alex exclaimed, maybe a bit too quickly. “But I can’t trust either of you on this. I need to know that if Chrys starts updating their fucking journal again you won’t treat them as your slave.”
“You know, ‘fucking journal’ is an excellent title,” Rutile replied, crossing their legs, “And why would I do that again?”
“Because I’m gonna tell Padparadscha.”
Rutile's grip on their scalpel tightened.
“I see,” they mumbled, “We really have no shame, do we? Why not tell Euc too, or Sensei. Why don’t you write a book and publish it.”
“Is that what it takes for your wimpy little brain to stop playing tricks on Chrys? Cause you bet your ass I’ll do it. And it’ll be a fucking masterpiece.”
“What are we even talking about? This whole conversation is ridiculous.”
“Well excuse me if your partner doesn’t praise your ass in seven different languages. Did the journal help you cope with your repressed fantasies? Do you need me to hold your hand? To put some straw in your fucking ass?”
“Get out,” Rutile seethed
“My pleasure, doctor,” Alex replied. They readjusted their glasses and walked out of Rutile's office slamming the door behind them. Rutile's scalpel caught up just a couple of seconds later, leaving an indentation in the wood before clattering to the ground.
It wasn’t even nighttime when Chrysoberyl’s forced diet came to an end. It finished just as abruptly as it had started. Not in a fancy way— and that was probably for the best, because Chrys blacked out more or less the second Alexandrite came back home, slammed another door shut behind their back, grabbed their spouse by the collar and kissed them senselessly. It had all made it very difficult for Chrysoberyl to note down the experience. The journal didn’t see a new entry for a few more hours, but in the following week not even Chrys’ newfound sense of self-preservation could restrain their poetic muse.
The love of their life came up with an elegant solution, as expected of them. And if Chrys had confided in Alex from day one, it would probably have saved both of them heaps of embarrassment and that bleak, painful week that was still so horrifyingly engraved in Chrysoberyl’s mind. Alex solution was to simply use encryption. They left Chrys with a couple of thick books to develop their own cipher, making very clear that they didn’t want anything to do with this story anymore.
Chrysoberyl was a smart person. An artist at art, an intellectual, a match, more often than not, for Alexandrite’s scholarly musings. And yet creating a strong cipher proved to be a complex feat, one that severely limited Chrys’ muse since they had to keep looking at the key and then back at their journal and then back up again and their pen could not spin its twirls and give voice to Chrysoberyl’s feelings as fast as Chrys was used to. It came to the point where they had to make a dangerous decision.
“How’re things going with Rutile?” Lexi asked them one day and this was the answer Chrysoberyl came up with, hating themselves with every fiber of their being.
“Nothing to report. I decided to follow your advice and stopped writing.”
“Oh?” Alexandrite’s eyes widened in surprise.
Maybe that should have made Chrys suspect something. Those widened eyes. Because Alexandrite had been more surprised by Chrys lying to their face than by Chrys giving up their craft. They knew there was no way for Chrys to stop updating their journal. Even if when Alex found the red diary they noticed that no new pages had been written in a long while, they knew, as much as they knew that Chrys’ hair was blond, that their spouse had to be writing a new one.
Everyone knew. Alexandrite knew because they knew Chrys, Chrysoberyl knew because they were writing it, Rutile knew because they had found it again, but didn’t tell Chrys. It was still fun, however, to tease the dumbass from time to time, blackmail or not. Like that one time they were arranging chairs in front of the school, the day before Euclase’s birthday.
They had just finished setting the place up and Rutile watched Chrys drop themselves on the floor, almost unceremoniously, and wipe the sweat from their forehead.
They walked up to them with a glass of water and handed it out to them.
“Thanks,” Chrys said.
“Not at all. Nothing like some rest after all that strain, uh?”
“Yes, it feels good to breathe a little.”
“Just like a live ploughshare digging into soft, humid earth,” Rutile said, quoting one of Chrys’ new poems.
Chrysoberyl looked at them with a defeated, dumbfounded expression on their face. It took every fiber of their education not to let the glass drop from their fingers.
“Relax,” Rutile smiled, “I told you. You have a knack for literature.”