Chapter Text
Ulixes' hand hovers for an uncertain moment but then, at last, settles like softly drifting snow on his comrade's back. Five fingers splay between tense shoulderblades. "Take a deep breath, Steban."
"I'm sorry," Steban whispers. "I don't know why... I... this shouldn't be happening."
"It's going to be alright," Ulixes says.
Steban shakes his head. "I know this isn't normal. People are staring."
In reality, Ulixes surmises, the staring is probably mostly in Steban's mind, a manifestation of his very reasonable reluctance to embarrass himself in public. There are not many other shoppers present in the Frittte, two or three people drifting along the shelves, and most of them are absorbed in their own tasks. Sure, maybe some shoot them a slightly strange look, but disinterest takes over within seconds.
"Nobody is paying attention to us," Ulixes says, keeping his voice level and steady. "You can take your time choosing what you want."
Steban puts his hands on his mouth. Overwhelm is making his whole skinny frame shake. "I'm going to throw up. I'm going to throw up right now." Fevered, his eyes dart along the wide, expansive shelf crammed with garishly colorful packets of chips and nachos in flavors ranging from reasonable to outlandish. Dozens of brands, dozens of meaningless choices... freedom, under capitalism. "They're all the same, but really they're not... but really they are..."
"Yes, Steban." Ulixes begins to search his pockets for a handkerchief. Preferably a fresh one...
"I can't even afford these, really. I... this is the first time this week I have food money, and..."
Ah, and here is the crux of the problem, Ulixes thinks as he wraps an arm around Steban's quivering shoulders, here's why he's witnessing his best friend have a panic attack inside a Frittte. They're well into the week. And yes, of course, rent was just due... and Steban managed, again, to dodge eviction, but at a price. Really, Uli should have caught on, known what it meant that Steban was smoking a lot more and not inviting him over for dinner. Not that Steban would have simply told him. He never does. Maybe he doesn't want to be a burden, maybe he's too proud, maybe it's a bit of both.
Ulixes emphasizes. He hasn't known hunger himself, not like that - but right now it's as if he can bodily feel it. That yawning pit in his stomach, the nausea, the lightheadedness of too much nicotine and too little else. The emotional toll of the situation. Brittle, fragile, fit-to-crack emotions. He feels it all so acutely it makes his teeth ache. Just his imagination? Or... is this plasm? Is he really picking up Steban's real feelings?
Be that as it may, it is time for him to step up now. Ulixes straightens his back. "Step outside, Steban. Get some fresh air. Hand me your grocery list, I'll finish up the shopping for you."
For a moment, relief and stubbornness do silent battle beneath Steban's eyes, but he gives in. "Okay. Here," he says and tries to, along with the list, press a few pathetic, crumpled bank notes into Ulixes' hands. With his eyes lowered, his voice an anxious husk of itself, he adds, "Please make sure to budget."
Ulixes sighs. "Keep these." He has a little money left from his latest job - he takes commissions, occasionally, for translations: from Walder into Suresne or the other way around. It's irregular work and the rates are disturbingly low, but at least it's the occasional something. "Just buy me a coffee sometime," he says, knowing full well that he is never going to call in any sort of repayment for this as long as they both live.
They worked on the presentation together, because they naturally collaborate on most things now, but the assignment was ultimately Uli's: he's the one who must stand in front of the professor and his fellow students and, well, present.
Ulixes is not the words guy in his revolutionary cell of two. He sees himself as Steban's pillar of support, chiming in when needed, putting enemies of the cause in their place by any means necessary (any day now his chance will come), but not taking center stage. The syllabus is less than accomodating towards his vision. He can't just let Steban orate in his stead: he has to give some kind of talk, and it will affect his grade.
Now here he stands, seriously rethinking his every academic ambition. A lecture hall filled with students, their expressions ranging from bored over sleep-deprived to hungover, are looking at him. His palms are sweaty. The lights are too bright. He's all alone up here.
His eyes seek Steban, seated somewhere in the middle of the room, not up-front but not back row either. Steban smiles at him. Why can't you be here with me, Ulixes thinks. By my side as always. I can't do this. People are staring. They'll think I'm weird, they always do.
For a moment, he imagines Steban answering him, his voice so soft and kind and soothing as always, You'll be alright. You prepared for this, and you know your stuff. You can make them listen to you too. I have faith in you.
Clammy and tense with stage fright, Ulixes imagines Steban actually projecting those thoughts at him through an inframaterialist connection, through their strong bond, to show his support. Wishful thinking. Or is it...?
His hands unclench.
It felt right when they linked hands leaving Steban's apartment: like safety, like belonging, like doing something fundamentally correct. Steban felt something inside his chest swell with pride then, about fifteen minutes ago. Now, in the middle of the sidewalk on Rue du Saint-Ghislaine, in the middle of the afternoon, he's beginning to grow worried.
He tugs lightly on Uli's hand. Misinterpreting the gesture, or maybe just being stubborn, he merely takes this as incentive to walk closer.
There's nothing for it. Somehow, the topic has to be breached. But how to do that, and not hurt Uli's feelings?
"Maybe we should... erm..." Steban falters. Uli looks so uncommonly relaxed. He hates to take this from him.
"Yes? Maybe we should what?"
"Well..." Steban tugs at his hand again. "Maybe this isn't our... best idea to date."
"What do you mean?" Ulixes asks.
"I..." Steban squirms mentally. "I mean, it's nice like this, but... and I hate to reduce this to identity politics, but... look, it's like this. People are staring. We are going to get hate-crimed."
"I'll teach anyone who dares a lesson," says Ulixes ferociously, or what he thinks is ferociously. Steban finds himself endeared as well as concerned.
If only it worked like in Nilsen's theories already, he thinks, if only we could master that mind-melding technique. Then I could get him to understand why I worry. As it is, if I refuse him now, it's just going to look like I don't want to be seen with him.
Steban rolls his shoulders in defeat and submits himself to a near future filled with ambiguity and miscommunication.
"Don't worry," Steban says, "They're going to love you."
Ulixes wonders how Steban knew he was worrying. Maybe they're finally cultivating sufficient plasm, starting to read each other's minds? Or maybe it just shows in his face and posture. "I... hope you're right," he says.
"I know I'm right. Look, my family don't expect... I mean... they don't need you to impress them somehow. They're eager to meet you. They're simply, well... happy I have someone."
"That sounds nice." Ulixes can't even imagine bringing Steban home to his parents' house. Maybe once the revolution is at hand and it's time to torch the place. And even then, only maybe.
He's not actually that worried about meeting Steban's relatives. Steban talks often enough about how great they are, how tolerant of his idiosyncrasies - what, really, can go wrong? Okay, fine, maybe he's a little worried. The worry is being exacerbated, subtly, by his surroundings. Or maybe just his thoughts about the surroundings?
Revachol is enormous in size, so much so that a person can spend their whole life in one's quarter of town and never feel the need to leave. Consequently, there are whole neighborhoods of Revachol West where Uli has never gone, and this part of Jamrock is one.
Steban grew up here, which renders these streets sacred. Uli is not sure how to tread on sacred ground. Surely every other pedestrian on the sidewalk can see that he's never been here, that he doesn't belong here, that only by the grace of Steban's leave is he permitted to traverse here. Is he imagining it, or are the locals giving him hostile looks? Hostile looks out of black pool eyes...
"What's with you?" Steban asks. "You've gone all fidgety."
"Sorry." Ulixes tries to get a grip. Surely if Steban has noticed, so has everyone else on the street. Noticed him, the interloper, the intruder. "I just... I don't know, I feel strange. People are staring."
Steban pats his shoulder as they continue walking. "Oh, come now, they're not going to eat you. Yes, this is Madre turf, but you don't have to keep squinting over your shoulder. I doubt you'll meet even one banger today."
Ulixes feels like his brain is lagging behind. He hadn't been thinking of any of that sort of thing at all... or had he? Somehow, subconsciously? "Uh... what turf?"
"La Puta Madre. You know, the gang. They're not that interesting, they're just like the RCM or something." Steban shrugs. "No need to be such a gringo about it."
"Sorry." Ulixes lowers his eyes, appropriately chastised. Steban must see him hunch in on himself, because he squeezes his shoulder again.
"Hey, it's no big deal," he says, because he's just that nice, and intuitive. Or maybe...?
Ulixes tries to huddle in a doorway, but it only provides scant protection from the rain. He doesn't have an umbrella, or the right clothes for being out in this weather, and he hadn't planned on it either. He'd planned on a nice, cozy afternoon of drinking coffee inside, maybe reading, maybe chatting, maybe listening to the radio, perhaps even making some love if the evening took them that way. But then Steban got that faraway look in his eyes that he sometimes gets and started muttering about there being "something in the wind" and that he had to "get out to it", rubbing his arms as if suddenly chilly. Idly, Ulixes wondered - and still wonders - if Steban got his hands on some kinds of drugs somehow.
(That would be alarming.)
He raised his reasonable concerns about the weather and the chill and the weirdness of it all, but Steban had brushed him off and said again, "There is something in the wind," in an urgent-sounding tone, and now he's standing out in the rain with his head tilted upwards, eyes closed, arms spread at his sides, listening intently. He's getting soaked to the bone. His hair and clothes stick to him. Still, there's a blissful little smile on his face - whatever he's listening to, it is in some way making him happy.
Uli crosses his arms. The cold is starting to get to him. He's sure he sees people passing by, huddled up in their coats, giving them irritated looks from beneath their umbrellas.
"Steban, come on, this is getting seriously weird. You're going to catch your death out here. People are staring."
Steban only raises a hand in his direction, pointer finger extended, Wait. Be silent. His eyes do not open. His lips move silently.
"What? What is it?" Ulixes shouts across the empty plaza.
Steban's eyes still do not open. "In a basement pub on Boogie Street, a man has just lit his cigarette the wrong way round by accident," he announces. "To the North, down the coast, three men are pissing into the canal. Competitively. No-hands-style."
"Grand revelations," says Ulixes.
"Whatever else it is, she says it is not yet time." Steban lowers his hands and blinks. "Like I'm not ready yet. Still, she's there. Isn't it amazing?"
"She?" Uli asks, and thinks, would that I could see what you see.
A day after this, Ulixes wakes up to golden morning light filtering in through the window, and Steban shifting languidly in his arms, still mostly asleep. He murmurs something unintelligible and nestles closer and wraps an arm around Uli's skinny chest, and it's a moment worthy of preserving in amber and gold, the kind of moment he'll remember to cheer himself up during harsher times. And ever so briefly, in this moment without thought and barrier and pretense, everything seems to slot into place, the universe to right itself. And in the quiet of his own mind, still in that floaty place between waking and sleep, Ulixes becomes convinced he can feel a current of drowsy, pleased emotions permeate his mindscape that are not quite his own, that feel sun-warmed and shimmery, and smell like soap and herbal shampoo and library shelves, and taste like a hint of some mellow, spiced tobacco: finally, real, actual Stebanthoughts.
Warm,
the sun-yellow feeling whispers,
Safe.
Pleasured.
Affectionate.
Then Steban's eyelids flutter and he drops off again, his breathing deepening.
Later, when he wakes up properly, maybe Ulixes will decide that he imagined this, or that it was a fragment of a dream, nothing more. Perhaps he will be right. But then again... who can say for certain? For now, he closes his eyes again, and permits himself to bask in the complete contentment he was given.