Chapter Text
Sometimes, Aniq allows himself to indulge in the fantasy of 8am. But he has to ration it. Otherwise, he’d drive himself crazy imagining a future he may never get to see.
There are a few constants, when Aniq envisions that light at the end of the tunnel. It’s nothing too much to ask, just simple things that have been denied to him since November 27th began to repeat. Aniq has a mental list: seeing the clock change from 7:03am to 7:04am. Eating breakfast at a little cafe where he can sip coffee for two glorious hours in the sun. Going to his parents’ house for Sunday lunch. Taking an afternoon nap. Aniq doesn’t particularly care for naps, but god, what he would give to have the luxury. Filling out the crossword puzzle for November 28th—he’s been saving that one.
There’s another constant, too.
In every version of November 28th that Aniq envisions, Yasper is there. It only makes sense that he’d be there when the clock turns, clutching Aniq’s shoulders as they jump up and down in delight. But Yasper is also at the cafe, ordering the sugariest thing on the menu and stealing bites of Aniq’s food. Yasper is tagging along to lunch, buttering up Aniq’s mom with his terrible library puns, and then crashing on Aniq’s couch as the food coma takes hold. Yasper is helping Aniq answer the music-related crossword puzzle questions, or (more likely) attempting to convince Aniq to write in his name as an answer. When Aniq indulges in fantasies of a life of endless possibility, Yasper being a part of it feels inevitable.
It’s comforting. It’s scary, just how comforting it is.
Aniq had written this off, at first. Perhaps Yasper’s presence in this imagined future was simply a byproduct of all the time they’d spent together—a kind of codependency fostered by shared trauma. If Aniq manages to escape this night, nobody else would be able to fathom what he’s been through. Of course he’d want Yasper in his life.
It is an easy explanation. Aniq can’t fully rule it out. But it doesn’t explain Loop 37, the night that preceded Yasper getting trapped in the time loop, when Aniq had talked him down from the ledge. It doesn’t explain why, lying underneath the bleachers with Yasper curled up against his shoulder, Aniq had thought to himself, I want to keep him.
Aniq has arranged and rearranged the pieces in his mind, pieces of the Yasper who was his best friend for over a decade. The Yasper who murdered another human being over a song lyric. The Yasper who, after everything fell apart senior year, got Aniq through the worst summer of his life. The Yasper whose selfishness has, more than once, made Aniq collateral damage.
The Yasper who, after everything, understands Aniq more than almost anyone. The Yasper who leaves glasses of water for Aniq around his apartment and orders two slices of tiramisu when Aniq would really be fine with one and looks after Aniq better than Aniq himself does. The Yasper who is perhaps responsible for upwards of 80% of the laughter and joy and comfort Aniq has experienced since he’s been trapped in this night.
80% is not an exact figure. Aniq has not attempted to quantify it with precision. But the upshot is this: when he is around Yasper, he is happy.
This knowledge sits heavy in Aniq’s stomach. Maybe it’s because he still isn’t sure if he could ever fully trust Yasper, after what he did. Maybe it’s because he doesn’t know if he could live with himself if, after everything, he finds that he can.
Yasper’s been putting in the work. That much is undeniable. Aniq wouldn’t have been able to have a relationship with Yasper at all if he hadn’t been willing to drag his worst choices into the light. But Aniq can’t shake the feeling that there is a part of this that Yasper is trying very hard not to look at. He just can’t put his finger on what it is. The closer they get to normalcy, the more Aniq expects the other shoe to drop.
And yet, when Aniq pictures 8am, Yasper is there.
“You are not working today,” Yasper insists, as soon as they wake up in the parking lot. “We’re taking the night off. I’ve got a bath bomb shaped like a cupcake and I’m gonna soak until I turn into a human raisin. What’s your plan?”
It’s sweet of Yasper to pretend that this is motivated by something other than Aniq’s Pussy Hole-induced anxiety attack. But they’ve been through too much for Aniq to care about pretense. “Thank you, but you don’t need to dance around it. It’s the right call. I think I’m going to hole up and watch Deep Space Nine.” He needs some solitude, if only for a day.
Aniq half-expects Yasper to invite himself along. The last time Aniq said he needed to be alone for a while, Yasper had assumed that “alone” included him. That was honestly pretty funny, except for the big sad Yasper eyes of it all. Aniq thinks that Yasper would probably be content with near-constant human interaction.
But Yasper just nods. “Want me to drive you home?”
Aniq takes him up on the offer. As they drive away from Hillmount, his brain returns to the horrible web of possible time loop fates.
Imagining doomsday scenarios in hyper-realistic detail is something Aniq unfortunately excels at. This is the thing that Aniq has not shared with Yasper—the problem is not just Pussy Hole or working too much. It’s where his mind goes when he’s not working.
Such as: What if they are stuck reliving November 27th for over a decade, oblivious to the fact that their internal organs are aging, only for Aniq’s kidneys to fail shortly after they escape? Unlikely, Aniq tells himself. There is concrete evidence of their bodies resetting night after night.
But what if Aniq escapes after a decade, physically unscathed, but the Sisyphean horror of it all leaves him unable to function in society? That one is harder to dismiss. What if he inadvertently pulls another person into the time loop and he has to live with the guilt of condemning them to this purgatory? What if he wakes up in the parking lot and Yasper no longer remembers any of it and Aniq has to go back to a life of crushing isolation? What if, when the clock finally hits 7:04am, Aniq is transported to that spot by the Bay—with Zoë in the driver's seat of Yasper’s rental—only to discover that they are all stuck with the consequences of the very first night?
One of the only things keeping Aniq going is his hope that a better fate is within reach. If all of his blood, sweat, and tears result in nothing more than Xavier dead and Yasper in prison, that might actually break him.
And there are arguably worse endings, like the possibility that this purgatory may be eternal. (Is that worse, in the grand scheme of things? Aniq isn’t sure. If given the ability to make a Faustian bargain—Xavier’s life for his freedom—Aniq feels relatively confident that he’d turn it down. But would he make the same choice after ten years? A hundred?)
At any rate, there is only so much catastrophizing a person can do in one day. Aniq tries not to let himself dwell on the what-ifs any more than he lets himself dwell on 8am.
It is far easier said than done.
At a red light, Yasper fiddles with the radio until it lands on something orchestral. “This ok?”
After a minute, Aniq recognizes the piece as Vivaldi’s Summer. “Sure. Is this KDFC?” Aniq can find something to appreciate in most every genre, but would not have expected Yasper to pick a classical station. Maybe Yasper figures orchestral music would be calming. The 1812 Overture would like a word, Aniq thinks. Or, put less delicately, perhaps Yasper is concerned about Aniq’s ability to handle anything composed in the past century.
“It’s not ‘cause of the Pussy Hole thing,” Yasper says, as if reading Aniq’s mind. “Okay, it’s not only ‘cause of the Pussy Hole thing. I just can’t do 99.7 anymore.”
Usually, when they’re driving, Yasper will pull from his endless supply of Spotify playlists. But there’s something calming about FM radio—having a knob to turn between your fingers, picking the genre but leaving the specifics up to chance. Except, when one lives the same day on repeat, chance becomes a predictable pattern. Most of the contemporary music radio channels no longer have any surprise factor.
The piece shifts into a faster tempo. They’ll get sick of KDFC in time, too, Aniq thinks. Perhaps there will come a day when they’ve exhausted every single radio station and Spotify playlist and—
“Wait, wait,” Yasper says. “Is this the song from that movie with the lesbians?”
The weight on Aniq’s chest lessens. “Yasper, what are you talking about? This is Vivaldi. It was composed centuries before the advent of film.”
Yasper shakes his head. “No, no. There was a movie. I think it was French. Not Ratatouille,” he adds. “There were lesbians. And they made me cry for half an hour.”
“Not Ratatou—?” Aniq collapses into laughter. “Are you talking about—?” He wheezes. “Are you talking about Portrait of a Lady on Fire?”
Yasper taps the steering wheel, triumphant. “Yes! We should do a movie night. A French double-feature. With some wine and baguettes and little cheeses.”
“Uh huh, so… Portrait of a Lady on Fire.” Aniq smiles. “And Ratatouille. That’s your proposal.”
“Classy, right?”
“Classy,” Aniq agrees. Perhaps something to look forward to, after he next talks to Xavier.
The following night, Yasper wheedles Aniq into pivoting to Teach Walt to make friends. It’s a classic Yasper Distraction, whimsical and unproductive. Aniq suspects this is a way of easing him back into things.
Aniq arguably indulges the Yasper Distractions more than he should. But maybe Yasper is onto something, with his gambols and his nights off. There is utility in their inutility. Aniq has never had a breakdown while explaining to Walt Butler the basic conventions of social interaction.
Teach Walt to make friends, however, is proving nigh-impossible. Aniq refuses to allow Yasper to slip him Chelsea’s hamster benzodiazepines. Thus far, they have discovered that giving Walt a pep talk makes him self-conscious and alcohol simply puts him to sleep. It initially seemed like they were getting somewhere by coaching Walt through Yasper’s AirPods on how to talk to people, à la Cyrano de Bergerac. But it soon became clear that Walt had trouble distinguishing between their instructions to him and the words they wanted him to say out loud. They finally called it quits after Walt ended up shouting at Chelsea, “Having a rough night! No, Walt, that was supposed to be a question, not a statement!” before panicking and throwing the AirPods into a punch bowl.
Alas.
Truthfully, Aniq is not putting his mental energy into Teach Walt to make friends. It’s essentially Yasper’s pet project. Neither of them believe Walt Butler holds the key to their escape, but Aniq suspects Yasper prefers a project that does not involve himself.
That’s not entirely fair, Aniq reminds himself. Yasper has been doing the work.
Hasn’t he?
Yasper puts both hands on Aniq's shoulders. “You’ve got this. I think this could be it.”
“You always say that,” Aniq points out.
Aniq actually has a good feeling about tonight. This may very well be the night that he breaks through to Xavier. Granted, Aniq doesn’t believe that will release them from the time loop. His gut tells him that it’s Yasper who holds the key to that door.
But if Aniq can mend fences with Xavier, they’ll at least gain a few more data points, based on whether the sharpie marks on their forearms last the night.
“Remember, to let me listen in from here, you press Home on the panel, then Intercom, Enter, Main Floor, Panic Room, Enter, Enter, Home,” Yasper rattles off. “Then me, on this side, I'll press Accept and Mute.”
Aniq closes his eyes. “Hillary is eating my fettuccini, permitting (reluctantly) eight Englishmen to eat hers,” he recites. “Wait, is it two Enters in a row or three?”
“Two. No, three? No, two. Two.” Yasper shudders. “I still think that sounds like a porno. Let the woman eat her own pasta, damn.”
“Just so you know, I may not turn on the speakers,” Aniq warns.
“Too much to remember? I feel like if we came up with a mnemonic that wasn’t a pasta porno it’d be easier,” Yasper suggests. “Hozier’s iguana eats manicotti… Nope. Dammit. I’ve got nothing but noodles.”
This, in fact, is not the reason. Aniq is planning on taking a different tact with Xavier tonight. He’s unsure if he wants Yasper to be listening in. “I think I need to feel Xavier out. We’ll see how it goes.”
“Ooh, good call. If he sees you messing with the panel, he might think it’s a trick. Do it sneaky?” Yasper proposes. “Or don’t. Whatever. It’s fine.” He waves an arm. “I’ve got Candy Crush. I can talk to Chelsea.”
—
After watching the reunion play out dozens of times, it is clear that, out of everyone, Eugene Xavier Duckworth Jr. has by far the most walls up. Aniq and Yasper have been trying to chip away at them, to relatively poor results. Honesty is an insufficient battering ram, as it turns out. They need to weaken the foundation first. It had taken Aniq over a week to discover that there are four predicates to doing so.
The first, and the simplest, is to shit-talk Brett. Aniq had discovered this by accident at the afterparty. Not thinking anyone else was within earshot, he made a crack to Yasper: hasn’t anyone ever told Nelson Muntz over there that thirty-three’s a little young for a midlife crisis? There was a snort from behind, then a flash of purple disappearing around the corner.
The second step to dismantling Xavier’s walls, Aniq has learned, is to approach him at the afterparty toward the end of the night. The reunion is not a space that facilitates emotional honesty. The novelty of Xavier is at its height toward the beginning of the evening, which means it’s very hard to get him alone. At the afterparty, Xavier seems a little more at-ease. It’s possible to pull him away from the spectacle of himself.
The third trick is weed. That was, predictably, a Yasper idea. Aniq had nixed Yasper’s half-baked plan to get Walt high, but he is less opposed to offering marijuana to a guy whose songs are littered with references to recreational drug use. When Aniq and Zoë visit the teacher’s lounge, Aniq grabs the baggie of gummy edibles. Later, he suggests Zoë take them with her in the helicopter, a little snack for the road. A stoned Xavier is noticeably more agreeable.
The fourth and final step is Chelsea. Aniq had originally assumed that he would have better odds of getting through to Xavier if he spoke with him at the afterparty before Chelsea did. Each time she badgers Xavier into admitting that he’s an asshole and a douche, like she did that first night, it puts him in a foul mood for the remainder of the evening. But the real game-changer, counterintuitively, occurs when Yasper coaches Chelsea into persisting until she gets a genuine apology from Xavier, not just an admission of assholery. On those nights that the words “I’m sorry” leave Xavier’s mouth, he spends the rest of the party a little less guarded.
And then it’s just a matter of combining all four tactics into the same night.
Aniq walks into the bedroom as Xavier is pouring the cat tranquilizers off the balcony. “You should see if you can hit Brett’s giant head with some of that,” he suggests.
Xavier gives Aniq a surprised look, then rattles the upside-down flask. “Too late.”
“So…” Aniq approaches the balcony. “I was hoping we could talk.”
Xavier side-eyes Aniq like he’s expecting an ambush, which makes sense. There isn’t exactly a foundation of trust between the two of them. Even setting aside their history, Xavier is used to living in a world where everyone is out for themselves. The reunion is no exception—all of their classmates seem to want something from him, whether that’s revenge, validation, or just a selfie with a celebrity.
But Aniq is far from a master manipulator. Lying gives him anxiety, and he’s terrible at it. He’s not likely to be able to finesse Xavier into dropping his guard, which means all he’s left with is honesty. “Look. I know I’m probably one of the last people you want to talk to,” Aniq admits.
“Nah, it’s whatever.” Xavier shrugs, playing the part of the gracious host. “Mi casa… Well. You know how it goes.”
“I promise I’m not here to start anything. I was hoping we could clear the air.”
“You don’t like my cologne?” Xavier asks. “It’s Old Xpice.” The corner of his lip twitches.
Surprising himself. Aniq lets out a laugh. “Was that… a joke?”
Xavier gives Aniq a small smile. “I’ve got jokes. You think I’m just a pretty face?” He makes a rectangular camera frame around his head with his fingers, and mimes pressing down on the shutter.
“No, actually,” Aniq says. Xavier isn’t the smartest, but he’s more perceptive than he lets on. “I just didn’t expect you’d joke around with me.”
Xavier shuffles awkwardly at this. “Well. You know. Water under the bridge, and shit. I want everyone to have a good time.”
“Mm. That’s actually why I was hoping to talk.”
Xavier leans back against the balcony wall, elbows resting on the railing. It’s a deliberately casual gesture. “Talk about what?”
He always plays dumb. Aniq’s tried this half a dozen ways. About the St. Patrick’s Day party. About the night that changed the trajectory of our lives. About the time you pushed me in the pool and I took a baseball bat to your convertible. The fight. The arrest. Losing my scholarship. Even where Aniq leads with forgiveness and openness, it never works. Xavier stammers out some awkward platitudes, but they never really get to the root of the problem.
Aniq comes to stand beside Xavier, facing the water. “About Yasper.”
Almost imperceptibly, Xavier tenses. It’s a hairline fracture in a very convincing facade. When Xavier speaks, it’s nonchalant. “What about Yasper?”
“It was always about Yasper.” Aniq turns to look at Xavier. “Wasn’t it?”
Xavier shrugs. “Dunno what you mean.”
That’s fine. Aniq can wait him out. One thing Aniq has learned over the course of all of the November 27ths is that most people are uncomfortable with silence, and can be counted on to eventually fill it.
Sure enough, Xavier breaks first. “I, uh, don’t have much to say about Yasper. Stuff happened. People drift apart, you know? I could care less.”
Aniq can’t help himself. “You know, when you say, ‘I could care less,’ that actually implies you do care.”
“Oh my god.” Xavier rolls his eyes. “This is why we were never friends in high school.”
“Alright. I deserved that one.” Aniq smiles. “I’m not saying I think you and I would have been besties.”
Unsurprisingly, Xavier scoffs at this. He turns around and stares out at the water, resting his forearms on the railing.
“But I think a lot of the tension between us was because…” Aniq’s not sure how to diplomatically word this next part. Because you always felt like you were competing with me for Yasper, is the unvarnished truth, but he thinks that would put Xavier on the defensive. “Because Yasper kept trying to get us to be friends, even though we didn’t really gel.”
Xavier keeps looking straight ahead toward the beach, and Aniq has to suppress a chill. Rationally, he knows there’s very little danger. Xavier has never fallen off of his own balcony before. But it still makes Aniq’s heart race. Even if everyone manages to escape this night alive, to Aniq, this will forever be the place where Xavier died.
“I used to feel like Yasper was always taking your side, back in high school,” Aniq says. “But I’m guessing you felt the same.”
“Maybe,” Xavier admits, after a very long pause. “For being such a people pleaser, he wasn’t very good at it.”
There it is, the first real crack in Xavier’s walls. “No.” Aniq smiles. “I think that’s often how it goes. You try to please everybody; you end up pleasing nobody.”
“You know who’s impossible to please, is the Jennifers,” Xavier digresses. “They tried to vet my playlist. I was like, nah, bitch. My house, my music. Uh, except I didn’t say bitch,” he adds, "because I’m a feminist.”
Aniq isn’t sure if Xavier is trying to avoid talking about the St. Patrick’s Day party or if he’s just easily distracted with an edible or two in him. He decides to push a little more. “Well, regardless, I know you felt like I was responsible for Yasper deciding to break up your band.”
Xavier stiffens. “Look, I respect that you’re trying to bury the hatchet, or whatever. But I wasn’t bullshitting you. High school was ages ago. I don’t care about Yasper, and I definitely don’t care about some stupid ska band.”
Aniq is walking a delicate line. Ska-Pe Diem is clearly a sore spot, but he thinks he needs to keep pressing it. At the same time, he isn’t sure where to go from here. Aniq sees two paths forward: he could explicitly name the problem of Xavier’s jealousy, or he could throw Yasper under the bus for his teenage cowardice in how he handled the break-up. But the latter doesn’t feel like Aniq’s lane, and the former seems likely to backfire.
He decides to stay on the tightrope a little longer. “Fair. And I know you have very little reason to believe me,” Aniq says. “I just wanted to say that it was never my intention to drive you apart.”
“You did, though,” Xavier shoots back, before he remembers his mask. “I mean, I don’t care. It’s not like Ska-Pe Diem was gonna win me a Grammy.” He nods back toward his house. “Did you see my Grammys? I’ve got a few.”
“Do you? I hadn’t noticed,” Aniq responds. It’s a poor strategic move, he fears, but he is sick of Xavier’s constant posturing. Any time they edge into sincerity, Xavier jumps back like he’s just touched a hot stove.
Xavier huffs. “Wow. Fifteen years and you’re still a smug bitch, huh?”
The words are biting, but there’s surprisingly little hostility in his voice. Aniq figures if he hasn’t managed to burn this bridge yet, he’s not going to do so by responding in kind. “Well, you’re still an entitled douche, so I suppose it evens out.”
Xavier laughs—not a fake, I have to practice my laugh for a movie laugh, but a quiet chuckle. “So, did Yasper put you up to this, or what?”
“Not exactly,” Aniq says. He is reminded of what Chelsea had told Danner, that first night. “They say everyone comes to a reunion for a reason. I suppose I was looking for love, at first.” He looks down at the terrace, but it’s empty.
Xavier gives Aniq a mildly concerned look, and Aniq realizes his mistake.
“Not you,” Aniq clarifies. “I didn’t mean you. That’s—that’s unrelated.”
Xavier lets out an amused exhale. “I was like…” He widens his eyes comically.
“I just meant that reunions make people assess their lives more than we usually do, day to day,” Aniq explains. “It’s hard not to think about how the person you thought you’d be when you grew up matches up with the person you are now.”
Xavier nods. He seems deep in thought, which is an unusual expression on him. “I wasn’t trying to… I didn’t…” He looks over at Aniq. “Sometimes you do something. And you don’t fully realize what’s gonna happen, after.”
The sentiment could apply to so many of their teenage choices. It’s the closest thing to an apology Aniq has ever gotten. “I think we both made decisions that night that had pretty far-reaching consequences. But that’s the way it goes. You can’t change the past.”
“No.” Xavier is silent for a few seconds. “You know, I honestly thought you were coming up here to ream me out.” Xavier looks at the flask in his hand. “Like…”
“Like Chelsea?” Aniq shakes his head. “No. Don’t get me wrong, I was furious at you for a long time. But I’ve made my peace with things.”
He only realizes as he says the words that they’re true. That’s the interesting thing about forgiveness, Aniq has realized. It creeps up on you. (Though the untimely murder of the person who wronged you can be a powerful accelerant.)
Aniq had always assumed forgiveness would have prerequisites—that it would only be possible if Xavier offered a sincere apology, or at least a meaningful acknowledgment of the impact of his choices on Aniq’s life. But it’s simpler than that. Aniq forgives Xavier because he understands him. Xavier’s actions that night were undeniably cruel, but it was a reactive cruelty—the reflexive lashing out of a teenager who’d just had his heart broken by his only real friend. Thirty-three year-old Aniq can’t help but pity seventeen-year-old Xavier.
“I mean, I’d get it, if you were still pissed.” Xavier blinks. “It all went down so fast. I think it was, like, easier to be mad at you, you know?”
It was easier to be mad at Aniq than it was to be mad at Yasper, he means. “Yeah,” Aniq says. “It really was.”
Aniq has never had occasion to actually feel anger toward Yasper for his part in the St. Patrick’s Day debacle. He hadn't even known that Yasper had brought up his name as he was breaking up Ska-Pe Diem—Aniq was right. Our vibes are just way too different—until he’d learned it from Walt, fifteen years later. Aniq had a much more pressing betrayal on his mind, then. Even now, after having had months to sit with it, Aniq still can’t bring himself to be too mad at a teenager. Disappointed, maybe.
Xavier breaks the silence again. “So, you, uh, you said you were here for love, or whatever…” He trails off.
Aniq is surprised he’s asking. Xavier usually doesn't pursue Zoë after Brett interrupts them on the balcony. His interest in Zoë seems very surface-level, driven by ego and spite and insecurity. Maybe Xavier’s just a gossip hound?
“Well, I’d be getting ahead of myself to call it love,” Aniq says. He thought it was love, at first. Now, he thinks it was more the idea of love. The tragedy is that Zoë is still someone Aniq can see himself falling in love with. He thinks of her saying, it sounds like in every timeline, I still want to kiss you. He thinks of the guilt he feels every time he learns something new about the woman who is unable to truly reciprocate. “Zoë’s wonderful. I do really care about her. I just don’t know if it’s in the cards for us.”
“Oh. That’s not…” Xavier begins, then shakes his head. “Nevermind. Uh, you should go for it, or whatever. Zoë’s really nice.”
They’ve come a long way from, You don’t want to deny Zoë a little bit of fun, right? It still fascinates Aniq how Xavier can sound so phony, even when he’s shooting for sincerity. “Thanks. Maybe I will.”
“Just, uh…” Xavier shuffles on his feet. “Make sure Brett doesn’t cockblock you with a shrimp?”
Aniq laughs. “Noted. Perhaps I’ll come armed with scallops.”
“So…” Xavier looks to his right and left, even though there's no one around. “Are we good?”
Aniq nods. “We’re good.” He would probably not ever choose to be friends with Xavier, but he still believes what he had said to all of his classmates on that first night: that they all have more in common than he originally thought. That they all need each other. Not necessarily in a day-to-day sense—he certainly isn't going to be hitting up Brett or the Jennifers for life advice. But people need each other. One of the reasons high school was so difficult, Aniq thinks, was that so few of them were in the habit of recognizing each other’s humanity.
“Tight. Uh, you’re not trying to be friends, are you? …’Cause my WhatsApp is full,” Xavier adds, unconvincingly.
Aniq snorts. “Goodness, no. This was constructive, but I’m hoping after tonight we can peacefully go our separate ways.”
Xavier’s lips twitch. “Aight. Back at you. Later.”
“Be careful around the railing, okay?” Aniq pats Xavier once on the shoulder, and leaves the room.
When Aniq enters the panic room, utterly exhausted, Yasper bounces up off the sofa. Around him on the floor are several solo cups filled with some kind of bluish-purple concoction. “How’d it go? How’d it go? You forgot to turn on the panel.”
Aniq had not, in fact, committed to allowing Yasper to listen to his conversation with Xavier through the AV system. “I… didn’t forget. It just felt like something that I needed to do alone.”
Yasper gives Aniq an abandoned look, like he’s a puppy who has just been locked out of the master bedroom. Then he bounces back. “Hey, you know what time it is?” he asks, with a grin.
Aniq feels the stress of the evening’s task bleed away. He rolls his eyes. “Don’t say Yasper Time.”
“No, no! Even better. It’s ice cream time! Here's what I’m thinking. If it went good with Xavier, you should treat yourself, right? And if it was horrible, well, then you need a pick-me-up. Whaddya say? Ice cream time?”
“Ice cream time,” Aniq agrees, as they exit the panic room. “It went well. You know, Napoleon Bonaparte is rumored to have expressed a very similar sentiment. In victory you deserve champagne; in defeat, you need it.”
“Is that true?” Yasper walks with his arms out like an airplane. “I just came up with that one off the dome. Do you think I could be, like, the reincarnation of Napoleon? Ew. I don’t like it.”
“Well, the quote may be apocryphal,” Aniq says. “There’s a related line from Winston Churchill—nevermind. You don’t want to hear all this.”
“No, no! Gimme the nerd spiel.” Yasper gestures for Aniq to continue talking as they approach Aniq’s car.
Aniq knows Yasper does not fully absorb the content of his pedantic monologues, but it’s sweet that he indulges him. “Well, back in—Yasper,” Aniq chastises, as Yasper walks straight into the hood of Aniq’s Ford.
“Whoops! Where did that come from? By the way, totally unrelated, but you’re gonna have to drive,” Yasper says.
Aniq heads to the driver’s side of his car. “Yes, that is becoming increasingly obvious.”
“See, what happened was, I got bored in the panic room so I invented a new cocktail,” Yasper explains. “I call it Mystery Drink!”
“Amazing. Truly.” Aniq smiles. “I’ll call the U.S. Patent and Trademark Office.”
“Wanna know the secret recipe?” Yasper whispers, loudly. “It’s half triple sec, half blue Gatorade, and it’s teeeeeerrible,” he sings.
“Now that sounds heinous.” Aniq buckles himself in and waits for Yasper to do the same.
“It wasn’t even normal triple sec, it was like, the sleazy purple Xavier edition called Triple SeX.” Yasper takes off his shoes and sits cross-legged in the passenger's seat. “But it was all I could find in there, and let me tell you! It was narsty.”
“And yet you drank enough of it to need a designated driver,” Aniq points out. “Buckle up.”
“I had to be sure,” Yasper says, without making any move to fasten his seatbelt. “For the experiment.”
“Oh for Pete’s sake.” Aniq leans over into the passenger’s seat to fasten Yasper’s seatbelt himself. Drunk Yasper is so inefficient.
“Hee hee.” Yasper grabs Aniq around the middle. “You’re trapped now.”
Drunk Yasper is also cuddly. It’s familiar and comforting. But Aniq can’t let himself fully enjoy it.
“Do not tickle me,” Aniq instructs, as he snaps Yasper’s seatbelt into place. “No tickling.”
Yasper gently pokes Aniq in the side of his stomach with one finger.
Aniq pulls back and grabs the offending hand. “What did I say?”
“Poking isn’t tickling,” Yasper argues, pleased with himself. He threads his fingers through Aniq’s.
Aniq looks down at Yasper’s hand in his own. Was this the hand that broke Xavier’s nose? Does Yasper remember how it felt to push a man to his death? Even after months of reckoning with it, it almost doesn’t feel real.
Not for the first time, Aniq wonders what Yasper sees when he stares at himself in the mirror. He imagines all of the different Yaspers lined up in the reflection. Somewhere in the mix is Aniq’s oldest, closest friend. Somewhere in the mix is the person who chose to end another man’s life.
Which one is mine? Aniq asks himself.
When 7:03pm next rolls around, they meet in the parking lot.
“You know, that’s one thing I’m gonna miss when we get out of here,” Yasper says. (If, Aniq thinks.) “It’s real hard to get a hangover in twelve hours.”
“You’ll have to be more circumspect with your Mystery Drink consumption.” Aniq rolls up his sleeve.
Yasper does the same. Both of their arms are blank. “No sharpie marks.”
“No sharpie marks,” Aniq confirms. “Alright. Well, this clarifies some things.”
“You burying the hatchet with Xavier isn’t really doing it for the universe, huh?”
“It appears that way.” Aniq is not surprised. He’a long-suspected that if there is a way out, it is inextricably linked to Yasper.
“Art classroom?” Yasper asks. “Or we could take the night off, if you want.”
Aniq had really expected Yasper to have more follow-up questions about last night’s conversation with Xavier, seeing as Yasper was unable to listen in. He’s not sure how to take it that Yasper doesn’t. Maybe he’s just waiting until they settle in with their easels. Or maybe it’s avoidance—something Yasper does not want to face. Is it a kindness when Yasper pushes Aniq to take breaks? Or is he just trying to delay the inevitable?
“We might as well hop to it,” Aniq proposes, eyes fixed on Yasper’s hands.