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So, Natan made a few mistakes. A slight miscalculation, Nolan would say. No biggie, Lunox would say in a somewhat old-timer’s tone, as Belerick gave him a consolation, makeshift flowers made out of branches and root-like objects entangling with one another, he would water it when Natan took a hold of it, and flowers would bloom, seemingly creating an arch out of the mismatched shape that formed the flower. It’s sweet and adorable, but it does nothing to console his distraught, agitated heart.
He should’ve known better. The... stubborn. Old—fossil would never drop the topic.
Ever since Nolan first laid his myopic, cataracts-ridden eyes at the sight of the young man—Natan’s current subject of affection—conversing with Lunox and Belerick, he can immediately tell there’s some sparks within his fellow colleague’s old-school’s idea of romance—a love at first sight, a meeting arranged by fate itself; a soulmate.
Natan did not believe any of that baloney, but he’s not talking about himself; he’s talking about that geriatric, deadbeat dad who thinks you can’t do something wrong by being a father—no, you heartless coot, abandoning your daughter is too fatal of a mistake, therefore he must not be given another chance to redeem the irredeemable.
One might argue, but that’s outside his control! If said man refuse to be sympathetic towards Natan’s conquest of love, Natan will also be apathetic towards his personal circumstances that forced him to abandon his daughter.
This, of course, sounds cruel—but it’s only a harmless jab to boost his own ego from within; please don’t take it too seriously. He would always, always be empathic towards the man for the trials and tribulations he went through during the 16 years he went away. But this one lukewarm topic of discussion—Aamon—is off-limit. He won’t cave in to his own pity for the man.
No, no, this is not him being intentionally petty because no one can hear his internalized monologues and spite; this is him speaking from a professional standpoint as a researcher AND a scholar. If you gave someone a certain amount of funds to gain a certain degree of insight from their so-called research regarding certain undocumented phenomena, you wouldn’t want it to go to waste, right? Exactly.
The impromptu visit was all it needed to spark Nolan’s interest. The name of the family—a Paxley, the Duke of it, nonetheless—being in a relatively intimate acquaintance with one of Eruditio’s most desired bachelors would most definitely snatch his interest in an instant. After all, Natan is infamous for being a man of dedication. He is too dedicated to his research; Rooney even jokingly said he’s married to his job.
No time for romance or even a small amount of indulgence; only work, work, work—something that Aamon respects about him. The much younger man would oftentimes pester him with random inquiries regarding certain stuff that confounds him. He is still young and inexperienced, no matter how independent he may look, being a duke and all—yet Natan would be more than happy to oblige to his requests.
So. He made a few mistakes.
“—I find that hard to believe.”
He made a few mistakes.
“Of course, feel free to not trust me. But I’ve been through it all—the multiverse. This reality is placed within a circle; anything outside of it is not real from your perspective, but they’re real. Very much so. Those ideas our reality rejects then create another circle, and anything outside of it they deem as unideal, this process went on indefinitely; altering choices, differing life paths, infinite outcomes, yet sometimes familiar faces emerge from another universe... and you... still look alluring as usual, Mr. Paxley.”
A few. One too many.
“Huh?” Aamon blinked for a few times, with a visible shy tint of red on his cheeks. “I don’t think we’ve met bef—oh.” Aamon put his fingers on his chin, thinking. “So, you’ve met other me before this?”
Natan crosses his arms. Listening to Nolan who practically purred an answer, “Yes, indeed."
“Interesting.”
It is interesting—but no, don’t fall for it, Aamon!
“Interesting, yes.” Nolan placed his hand on Aamon’s shoulder as he continued his usual act of thinking out loud—the frown on his brows, the thinning lips, the fingers rubbing his chin—someone should give Natan an award for being able to hold his tongue for so long to not throw insults against the nuisance who pulled Aamon closer to his body to whisper something on his ear.
Something snapped in him when Aamon gave a rather sheepish smile with his head lower, directed to Nolan.
“Your crash course on the multiverse is truly fascinating, Sir Nolan. But please, he is our esteemed guest; we should not spook him with all these unnecessary blabbers.” If he had zero self-control, he would’ve stomps his feet to the ground with a visible pout on his lips, “If you want to talk about multiverse theoretic that much, shall I open a class for you next week on the academy? But since I’m certain more people will be thrilled to attend the lecture held by the infamous cosmic wayfarer, let’s play it safe—let’s open the class throughout the entire week, shall we?”
The kind smile he offers may look like an encouragement, but it isn’t an encouragement. It’s a threat.
Take the offer, you old coot, he thought—it’s for his own benefit. Aamon said he’s planning to stay here for a week to get to know the outside world better after he realizes he may be too sheltered in his youth. So, that offer is a golden opportunity for Nolan to leave them alone and for Natan to be left alone with his dearest.
“That won’t be necessary—”
“Oh, no. Please. I’ll be glad to assist you.” No, he won’t. He’ll let someone else assist this pensioner on his own lecture; he won’t be able to attend due to a last-minute, urgent plan with a local florist. “I would love to listen to your theory regarding how much your choices today affect the outcome of tomorrow’s events in other universes.”
Nolan, though giving him a dumbfounded look, soon enough began to catch up on what Natan was trying to do. He grits his teeth whilst smiling wide, clearly annoyed, as he replies, “I don’t need to explain something so inconsequential to someone of your caliber, Sir Natan. A whippersnapper such as yourself most certainly would’ve come up with something even more fascinating.”
“Fascinating ideas means nothing if they're incorrect.” Natan said, feeling somewhat smug because he knew he'd win—this isn’t his first time getting into a petty argument with someone over something so trivial. He’s pretty confident in himself. “You’re the expert. You should share your knowledge to everyone who’s willing to listen. This is a city of scholars; knowledge is power, you know.”
With that statement, Nolan scoffs, “Why don’t you share your ten thousand years’ worth of advanced knowledge for everyone, then?”
“I would. But time is a fickle thing; what if by letting them know something they shouldn’t, I inadvertently create some—”
“You won’t.”
“Oh, you sure know a lot, wiseacre.”
“I’ve been around, remember? I know my stuff.”
“That’s a lot of confidence coming from a determinist old fossil—“
Aamon clears his throat, clearly uncomfortable. “I think it’s time for lunch.”
Natan glares at Nolan. No, no. This is not the time for lunch, Love, he internally replies to Aamon’s statement, his voice soft and gentle, like whenever he’s trying to teach him something new. This is time to put this adorable old prick back to where he belongs—somewhere far, far away from your good grace.
“How’s Layla? Must be tough taking care of your eighteen-year-old daughter, huh?” he turned his attention to Aamon who is now busying himself with a book he picked up at Natan’s table—it’s a bible. More specifically, a bible of the Moniyan’s religion. He’s not a big fan of putting his faith in a higher being, but he should broaden his knowledge regarding the topic if he wishes to court Aamon.
Just in case Aamon asks him something he cannot answer through logical means.
“I think Aamon and her can get along just fine.” They’re five years apart—that’s not too far of an age gap. Unlike having a forty-something-year-old geezer thirsting after a twenty-three-year-old youth. That’s a criminal age gap, despite the rationale telling him that it’s not a criminal offense if both are consenting adults.
“They’re about the same age.”
(Aamon’s shoulders tensed at that statement, but Natan chose to ignore it.)
“Of course, yes. They would most certainly get along really well. It’s a must. But to answer your question, she’s fine, Sir Natan. You’ve met her today, remember? Or has you gone senile due to that graying hair on your head?”
This time—Aamon put down the bible, fingers combing through his silver hair with worry.
“This is not due to my age. I am still in my late twenties, though, I can see why you’re offended by my mere presence. It may seem a little unacceptable for a braggart such as yourself to be bested by someone much, much younger than you."
“Please, we’re just ten years apart. There’s not that much of a gap between you and me.”
"Ten-year gap is a lot, Sir Nolan. Much like a twenty-year gap.”
“I am not forty, Sir Natan.”
“You’re living in denial. Time is linear. Time is constantly moving, no matter how much you feel like you’re not aging because of the void—”
“Your existence right here, right now, is enough proof to discredit your first statement.”
“I am an exception.”
“There’s no such thing as an exceptional being. You’re not exempted from the law of natural order simply because you’re you.” Nolan scoffs, a bashful smile somehow creeps its way to his lips, "If time is linear, you have not yet been conceived yet. What does that make you? Something much younger than a baby. No wonder you're so... childish."
Aamon raises both of his hands and stood up from his seat, approaching them slowly, "Alright—"
But Natan glares at him, authoritative voice commands him, "No. Sit down, Aamon."
"No, Natan. Stop. I'm sure whatever you and Sir Nolan arguing about can wait." Aamon said, "I made a promise with Miss Layla to meet her after lunch. Seems pretty important."
...oh no. No no no, this isn't happening. Is Nolan seriously going to weaponized his daughter's puppy eyes to win over Aamon?
Upon reaching that conclusion, Natan's face went sour, contrast to Nolan's own smug grin. "You've met my daughter, then."
Aamon huffs, and laugh, "She's hard to miss, to be honest—"
Natan grabs Aamon's hand without much inquiry, startling the duke.
"We'll be off for lunch, then. Come now, Dear."
Before they could leave, however, Nolan's voice call to them, "You know—since he's going to meet my daughter, it would makes sense if I'm the one treating him for lunch, right?"
"No, it doesn't make sense. I am his escort, not you. It is my duty to be by his side at all times. Also—"
"Oh god. Stop!"