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Foresight, at times, is wholly terrifying in its debilitating magnitude beyond comprehension.
The lack of it can be bliss at times, and yet crushing, in others.
The ceiling of his hotel is white — the bedsheets smell like wine. But the more he breathes, the more it feels like isopropyl alcohol, lacerating open cuts in his respiratory system; he chokes, swatting the air as though the flies of alcohol can be shooed away from him, but in reality it cannot. In reality, he cannot clear his heavy breath of alcohol, even as he chugs the bedside bottles of complimentary water, eyeing the clock that spells noon, noon, the two zeros of twelve sharp glaring at him with pale purple reproach.
You need to get your life together, Rook.
He holds his head and stops himself in time, from regurgitating the water he’d barely swallowed by force of function, his Adam’s apple bobbing harshly between air and water.
Get your life together, Rook, Vil’s hands are tugging on his collar, tugging his collar together, the words so blatantly flat that they slap him across the cheek. “We won’t have time for tomfoolery anymore, in the future. Society has no space for nonsense — for me. And the space beside me has no tolerance for a mess — for you.”
Is the palm mark still there? He stumbles into the bathroom where the tiles beneath his feet serve to wake him up if he wasn’t already sober enough, cold below zero when he shuffles onto the floor cloth. The toothbrush sits pretty, wrapped in plastic he tears through without a care — the stray bristles fall onto his tongue when he spits out the spicy foam of white, and stares at himself in the reflection of the mirror.
Vil was here yesterday. Vil was not here yesterday. Which is the truth, which the illusion? He doesn’t know the difference. He runs his thumb over his invisible stubble, then he runs the blade over his chin for good measure. He doesn’t know the difference, but Vil does. Vil knows all the differences.
Why’s he even in a hotel, anyway?
He pulls apart the curtains, and the street he looks out onto is not a street familiar to him. To his photogenic memory. To the missing fragments of his memories — whiskey is playing hide and seek with him, and last night’s inebriation has robbed him of his hunter’s senses.
His life has robbed him of his hunter’s senses. The irony.
What is he even doing? What is he even doing here? With his life?
Vil’s shoot today started an hour ago. An hour ago he’d slept through his third alarm. Vil’s shoot today is one man down, one less makeup artist. Vil’s shoot today has a new assistant onboard — bumbling his way through the drinks like Rook had watched him the last shoot. He’s not a very competent boy, that assistant, but most of them aren’t, that’s why there’s a need for so many of them. That’s why there’s a need for Rook, and Vil’s incessant sighs by his ears when the assistants do something wrong, and Vil resigns to asking him to do it.
He’s an hour late. More than that. At least he’s in the same city. He still doesn’t know how he came to be here, what happened between the glass of whiskey and the mild argument that went down between them, but nothing in this room spells out that Vil has ever been here, and his phone vibrates with a pathetic alarm he doesn’t remember setting. The map blinks its red dot at him angrily — there’s a jam on some highway and his broom isn’t with him. It’ll take another hour to get there. If he sets off now. Can he set off now? He looks like a mess. Not the kind of mess Vil would be happy to see, sweeping his hair aside for a good kiss. It’s the kind of mess that Vil won’t even look at him straight — he’ll get a side eye and be told to go home.
He messed up last night, probably. There’s a bruise on his ribs but not a single mark of lipstick. He remembers taking an elbow to the ribs. What did they argue about? He doesn’t know. He grabs what little things he brought here with him, slings his coat over his arm, and heads downstairs. It’s a decent hotel — they call him a ride quickly. A decent car, the driver doesn’t talk, doesn’t ask, hands him a mint and a sympathetic look he can’t suck on to make his breath sweeter, his words sweeter.
What changed over the years? He remembers chasing Vil in the wintery courtyard of NRC. Vil then didn’t so often have his hands on his hips and a scowl so deep it ran into Vil’s eyes. Vil at the start — perhaps he started caring too much, messing up too much.
They can’t go back to those days. Time moves on, and the struggle against it is always futile. Vil mentioned something the other day over the phone; marriage. Are they getting married? The ring box sits in his dresser, empty. He hasn’t found the perfect ring yet. Vil hasn’t held out his finger for a ring yet. Their tenth anniversary of the day they met has rolled by, a quiet dinner and a peaceful night. A rarity.
“No entry to unauthorised personnel.” The guard repeats the signage, like he’s blind. But maybe he is. He’s blind. He hasn’t seen Vil’s smile in a while, hooking his finger under his collar and fishing the lanyard that choked him awake. Rook Hunt, Personal Assistant, Photography Consultant, his card says. The guard gives him an odd look and he adjusts his hair again, in the rear view mirror of the car. The driver quietly hands him a brush — in return he wearily asks if the driver has seen many like him. The driver only laughs, nods, smiles. “You should apologise, lad, to the beloved. Nothing is worth the stale silence. It worsens the wound.”
He smiles wanly at the driver when the drizzle starts to fall. He steps out of the car with his thanks, a hand over his head, but maybe the rain can tidy his hair. Maybe the rain can wash away his stench of alcohol. Maybe the rain can wash away everything that has come over him these years, return him back to the hunter frolicking on the field, watching his beloved student actor working on his potion in the nearest tower, shrouded in coloured smoke.
His lanyard sways when he stalks towards the nearest café — he orders Vil’s favourite drink, the way Vil likes it. The way he’s gotten used to ordering it for Vil, no this, no that. The barista looks at him with such finite patience that he almost misses the infinite patience and infinite annoyance, vying for attention in purple eyes of contemplation.
“Where have you been?” Adela snaps at him before she can compose herself. He’s the only one here not on their paylist, so neither does she have the right to boss him around, but she has the right to be angry, which she clearly is, frowning at him over the cup he holds in his hand, over the fake smile he wears, bright LEDs to hide the way it’s not the sun anymore.
“I apologise, I was a little wasted for the night.”
“Like your potential, always.” There’s something that jumps, twitching between her eyebrows, but it’s something she doesn’t say, when she gestures vaguely behind her. “Hurry, will you? He hasn’t said a thing all morning.”
As if he would speak to me. I’m the reason he hasn’t said a single thing.
“And I hope that’s decaffeinated.” She mutters quietly, passing him to head back faster. “Vil likes it that way.”
It is. He doesn’t know why. But it is. That’s how things are nowadays, maybe. Less of a purpose. More of a routine. He reaches the resting trailer faster than he’d have thought, but it’s empty, like his head. He sets the coffee down and wonders if it would really be a good choice to go to see Vil now. Imagine if it were a happy scene. Vil wouldn’t like to have him ruin a scene, would he?
Faintly, he realises, turning the cup round and round until he reads the label of the beverage.
It’s been a long time since he’s known what Vil likes.
It’s been a long time since he’s known, not assumed.
Like the way he assumes, still, that it would upset Vil to see him.
He hasn’t observed Vil in a long time, when he gets himself a fresh change of clothes. Vil’s care is hidden here, in trailers and cupboards, a set of clothes just his size folded in a corner, complete with Vil’s favourite scent, his favourite scent. He takes a quick shower, a quick change, before he slips out of the trailer. Slips out to the filming grounds, to the cameras and the people, the crowd that stays quiet as the camera rolls on.
He stands, quietly, in a vacant space no one has filled, and observes Vil ever so quietly.
Does it surprise him that the first thing he notices — with his senses in renewed clarity, a snippet of the past — is the tiny wriggle of pain that hides, camouflaged in Vil’s perfect features?
Pain.
Panic flashes through him like the blind white version of it that woke him up this morning. Sheer, blinding anxiety. Pure, white panic.
The director mutters something — like he’s noticed it too, but if he noticed it, why isn’t he calling cut? Why aren’t they stopping? His eyes are ever pulled to Vil, forever, and Vil’s co-actor must know it too, the tightening of Vil’s hand on Vil’s own waist, on the co-actor’s bicep—
“Rook Hunt, what are you doing?!” Adela grabs his bicep and hisses; he throws his arm loose so easily amidst her disbelief. There’s something wet against his neck, and maybe it’s the rain, or maybe it’s his wet hair brushing against his nape, but everything feels wrong, every sensorial signpost pointing in the wrong directions, the worst directions.
He breaks through the barrier of people circling the scene — the angry “CUT!” of the director roars up behind him amidst the stirring, soaring displeasure of the staff and onlookers who had all prepared for the scene. Surprise flashes through purple eyes he’s so concerned about — and for a moment, surprise outweighs anything else in that lavender world.
Until his co-actor pulls away in frustration, glaring in Rook’s direction, mouth ajar as though to accuse him of breaking the scene, his hand swinging in gestures.
But Rook’s eyes only glance somewhere else, his trained vision broken, fixating on the wrong things instead.
It’s something bright amidst the dull grey of the rainy day. The rain falls harder — the director would have been forced to call the cut anyway, it’s not a rainy scene they were filming. But amidst the monochrome greys, the black and whites and greys of the world, there’s a flash of colour, bright, then deepening, mingling into their world’s palette.
Red.
Vil utters a quiet groan, before his knees buckle, and he collapses.
The rain around them seems to slow.
“Vil!”
The model’s knees connect with the concrete with a louder thud.
“Vil!” That voice is not his, too angry for no reason, too unnaturally loud and unpleasant, but it’s a jarring moment that reminds him — it is his voice. It is his voice that echoes in the wide filming location. It’s his voice, as he sprints harder, but it’s too late, Vil’s face is shadowed, and the model clutches his midsection, hunched over, crimson diffusing into the rainwater Vil sits in.
Were you shot? He wonders, out of nowhere. Did he not hear it? How could he not hear it? This place has better security than that.
He’s on his knees and pulling Vil into his arms, trying to help Vil stand, but the cry that emerges free from gritted teeth is piteous, is agonised, when he turns to glance at the eyes squeezed shut, the lavenders he cannot seek comfort from, nor can he offer solace to, in the heavy rain turning the world around them into a gaussian blur, a mist of confusion and panic.
“Were you hit?” He asks, audibly, his hand already running over where there must be a wound, a wound to bandage, something external that can be patched up as soon as they get to the hospital, something he can heal, coalescing skin and flesh with healing magic in the meanwhile.
But he’s never realised, up to this second, that what’s been growing this rift between them, has always ever been internal.
Vil laughs so painfully by his ears, and the rain is cold against his hands — so what is that drop of burning warmth against his skin, when his boyfriend tries to smile, but it breaks, so fragile in the harsh pelting of the rain?
Vil doesn’t say a word to him, and he can’t find a single bullet hole, a single wound, except.
Except that he runs a hand, again, over Vil’s abdomen, and swallows when he cannot ignore that there is a substantial rise to it he can feel. A substantial rise he can see, as the rain falls, and forces Vil’s shirt sleek against his body, betraying his secrets.
“I wanted to tell you yesterday.” Vil whispers. “With only one week left.”
One week left to what?
“The doctor said it would be stable after.”
What would be stable? After what?
“Adela already helped me think of different proposals we could follow through.”
For what?
The rain splatters, the only sounds he can hear, under the din of shouts, someone making a phone call, dialling for the ambulance, dozens of umbrellas popping up with a whoosh, colours spreading more and more.
“I just wanted you to get your life together.” Vil cups his cheek, and sobs. Sobs openly, amidst the pairs of eyes that watch them like knives digging into their skin. “I just wanted you to get your life together, and I would handle everything else, like I’ve always done, since our Pomefiore days. The sweetest days. Where you weren’t so confused, you silly hunter.”
Confusion. Stupefaction.
Stupidly, dumbly, numbly, he opens his mouth once, then closes it, then asks, for good measure.
“Beautiful Vil,” He touches his forehead to Vil’s, only to realise how hot it burns, how hot Vil’s forehead burns against his, feverish. “What have I not realised?”
“Everything I’m losing.” Vil curls into his chest. “Everything that we’re losing.”
His lover’s hand digs into his. Vil lays in his lap, whimpering with pain, with the colour that leaks from them like their strength sapped away.
“We should start over.” Vil whispers quietly. Aggrieved and in pain, but in the most rational manner, holding him tightly. “Let’s start again, Rook Hunt. I don’t know how we should have carried on anyway.”
The ambulance’s siren pierces the white noise too late. They put Vil on a stretcher too late. He boards the vehicle too late, sitting numbly by Vil’s side, hearing the words coming from his lover’s lips that he never even knew.
19 weeks. Doctors previously warned of higher chances of miscarriage from lifestyle habits and high stress levels. Recommended to take a break and shed some burden. Doctor’s check up and ultrasound initially scheduled for two hours’ time. Cramps started last night. Painkillers ineffective. Not the first time of bleeding.
“Désolé.” He utters, gripping Vil’s hand tight in his, and Vil clasps his hand back equally tightly. “I…I didn’t know.”
“You didn’t know.” Regret and sorrow shine in Vil’s eyes, condensed into tears that slip down the model’s cheeks, like the blood draining from between his legs, the life slipping away. “It’s alright. You didn’t know.”
There is accusation in the air, when he hangs his head, and the final verdict is out, in the isopropyl stench of an all-white hospital room, Vil’s hand limp in his from both physical and mental torment, thorough exhaustion.
You didn’t know.
Their child has been lost to the thunderstorm of fate. And he’s at a loss of what to do.
At the end of the day,
It’s an utter loss of it all.