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Tonight, Vincent was Chamber again.
Even when his entire body jerked itself awake, he still felt the hold of the nightmare. He was stripped from his comforts, instead placed back into the shirt with the scratchy collar and the buttoned vest that felt tight, suffocating as it squeezed onto his ribs and held his limp corpse in its grip. His hands were stained, drenched and soaking in a crimson so vibrant that it looked more like paint – dripping as it oozed down and lathered him in thick iron.
A deep, shaky breath; an uneasy drumming of his fingers on his hollow chest. He sat up and looked down at himself. Vincent certainly couldn’t see if there was still blood there, but he could still feel the slickness between his palms when he rubbed them together. It wasn’t real, he knew; it felt real though, unwilling to waver–
“You too?” Soft chuckling. “Looks like we’re in it together.”
Vincent turned his head. There, on the armchair, was Amir, with an asleep bundle of fur in his arms – a gentle reminder that they were both free from their past codenames, that this life was now different. But just like how it continued to haunt Vincent, the faint bags under Amir’s eyes and the uneasy petting under the dim lamp seemed to suggest that it haunted him, too.
Vincent wiped his hands on the blanket. “You should have woken me up. How long have you been there?”
“Not too long. You were deep in your sleep – Étoile started meowing once she saw I was up, but you were still out.” Amir managed a small smile. “She was quite loud, too. I was surprised you could sleep through that.”
“You’re spoiling her. She’ll need cuddles to sleep next time now.”
“I am not. You two just need to learn how to get along. Like friends, at minimum.”
“I will not be getting along with the cat,” Vincent patted the open space on the bed, “if you don’t come back.”
Amir glowered.
Vincent sighed. “Étoile is welcome, too.”
Thus, there they were: just him and Amir, lying next to each other with their eyes wide open at the ceiling and hands gently intertwined atop their damn spoiled cat. Vincent’s thumb grazed the intent in the side of Amir’s hand, a scar that had left its ridge marred deep in his skin; underneath, he could feel the soft tremor that washed through Amir’s blood, with it carrying the lingering fear and panic that had taken sleep away from him tonight.
“Amir?”
“Vin.” A chuckle wrought with exhaustion. “I know you can’t sleep either. No need to ask.”
“It has definitely been better on other days.” He paused. “We can take it slow tomorrow. I’ll let Phoe– Jamie know that we won’t be able to make it to brunch. Let me handle the meals tomorrow.”
Amir laughed – or scoffed, Vincent couldn’t tell. “Please do not burn down the kitchen.”
“I’ll give you plenty to look forward to, I promise. Only if we try to sleep now, though.”
Silence, now. Vincent’s eyes remained on the ceiling, filtered moonlight the only decor visible in a kaleidoscope of silver. He wondered if they would find peace. He wondered if the stars deemed them to be destined for peace in the first place.
He brushed the thought aside. They had to be destined. But if not him, then at least Amir deserved to find it.
“I can’t wait to wake up to a kitchen fire. Good night, ya rouhi.”
Vincent squeezed Amir’s hand. “Good night, mon amour.”
___
Amir was always the one to cook for the two of them – not that Vincent would complain, certainly. Their small apartment was quite unlike what Vincent had been used to, and with that came the introduction of gas stoves that burned his precious butter faster than he thought was humanly possible. He thought they had been outlawed long ago, but he remembered the raised eyebrow he was greeted with when the thought was vocalized and decided to keep his mouth closed as the primary chef of their household was officialized.
(That, and Amir was a wonderful cook. Vincent would never complain about what he decided to make.)
But Vincent eventually started to notice the soft droop in Amir’s eyes when their nights were merciless: the return to comfort foods, the hands unsteady as they chopped ingredients, the slipped bowls or plates to the ground, the accidental touches and burns. It didn’t take long for the reasoning to click with him when Amir had started talking about his own nightmares.
Cooking for Nora, who had fallen for him initially for his zaalouk. Cooking for his child, who had grown up banging his hands on the table for more of his baba’s bread, his khobz. Cooking for the people he had once loved, for the people he had now lost.
Vincent understood. Thus, when he woke from tumultuous sleep, he brushed past Amir and went straight for their kitchen.
He cracked the egg into the bowl with one hand and turned on the stove with the other. One, two, three more eggs into the bowl as the glob of butter fell into liquid on the hot pan. A fast whisk with a spare fork – fast, before the butter turned gold and then into soot black and carbon.
“Behind you.”
Vincent turned around with the bowl cradled in his arms. Amir held the salt shaker in his hands, sprinkling more than what Vincent thought was necessary into the mixture, but he wasn’t going to say anything about it. More stirring as Amir took his seat at the kitchen counter, slippers dangling off of the tall chair. Vincent wondered whether he looked like he was in a frenzy at the moment, because he certainly felt that way making what he thought was a simple breakfast.
The bowl of eggs was dumped into the pan with a sizzle. The toaster rang at that exact moment, its springs shooting warm bread upwards and into the air. Vincent tossed the fork and bowl to the side, reaching for a nearby spatula. As the chaos in the kitchen drew on, it didn’t take long for the two of them to be sitting side-by-side with their eggs and toast, with small bowls of miscellaneous fruits that Vincent had found in the fridge.
Vincent covered his mouth as he spoke mid-chew. “Your thoughts, Amir?”
“Good.” A nod. Eyes that lingered on the plate in front of him, eyes that never looked up to meet Vincent’s. “I feel like it’s difficult to ruin a plate of eggs, bread, and fruit.”
Vincent broke into a small frown. “Your honest thoughts?”
At this point, Amir froze, the bread in his hand stopped in its trajectory for another bite. He sheepishly set it down on the plate. “The eggs are a little rubbery, maybe also a little too greasy. Definitely way too salty.”
“Edible, but not good,” he agreed; regardless of whether he was at fault for the salt, he nodded anyway. “You’ll have to teach me your ways one day. What would I do without you, starve?”
“Well, I don’t think you’ll ever be without me. You can’t get rid of me, Vin.”
The words were soft chimes to Vincent’s ears, silent promises spoken in a manner so matter-of-fact that Vincent remembered what made him fall in the first place: how adoration was Amir’s baseline, his natural instinct in every action and conversation. It felt like Vincent was stumbling in place, tripping over his feet as he found himself falling again – no matter how often it happened, again and again and again, Vincent would never grow tired of the feeling.
“I’d never want to.” A small smile decorated his lips. “It’ll be us until the end.”
___
Vincent was always the one to clean for the two of them – he had always been much neater than Amir could ever see himself being, and therefore, Amir left the chore up to Vincent alone. He was also a wonderful decorator in Amir’s eyes – when he had a new idea for how to bring some new life into their humble abode, Amir was only a tool to help Vincent see his vision through. Not that Amir would complain, either. Vincent knew about the small trinkets and paintings that Amir wanted to keep, and seamlessly integrated them with the comforts of home.
(That, and Vincent cared for them like they were his own belongings. Amir had never heard of art restoration until Vincent was fixing a painting of Rabat that was starting to have its colors dull out.)
But alarms started to ring in Amir’s head when he started to notice the desperation behind the chore after certain nights: scrubbing the mop against the ground, endless wiping of their table surfaces, hand-washing so frequent that bright red scratches and flaking skin were fresh in Amir’s eyes. Vincent had spoken about blood on his hands, unable to be wiped off – Amir wanted to reach over and brush the scarlet that clouded Vincent’s vision away, because Vincent deserved better than to see himself as haunted.
“Étoile,” Amir clicked his tongue, watching as she scampered away from the scream of the vacuum, “you would hear this less if you stopped shedding so much. What else are we supposed to do?”
Feather duster in hand, Vincent scooped up the cat in his arms. “You give her fish oil, probiotics, everything. Daily brushes. Lots of hydration. This simply is the life of a cat owner – near-daily vacuuming and dusting.”
Étoile mewed. For once, she looked rather calm in his arms – almost accepting of the carry unlike her previous ferocity around him. Similarly, Vincent looked rather glad with the change in pace – a faint glow in warm eyes, soft pink in his face, and a gentleness in his cradle, as if he was swaddling her in his arms.
She stretched, paws reaching up to the ceiling; her tail curled and flicked in the air. Vincent chuckled as she let out a quiet purr at his rocking, his duster bobbing side to side with each fluid motion.
This was the Vincent that Amir had always seen, even if Vincent had struggled to view himself in the same manner. This was the Vincent that Amir loved and will always love: the patient, the comforting, the affectionate. He held Étoile exactly how he held Amir in their long embraces, like they were treasure and gold in his world. As the vacuum continued to run, cleaning the same spot on the ground for a little too long now, Amir found himself unable to peel his eyes away from his sun and their little star.
They were the universe, the three of them, and Amir would have it no other way.
___
Anyone who falls in love is searching for the missing pieces of themselves.
Once, Amir had found his missing piece. He was young, before he had even considered entering the world of crime, and was still living under the roof of his parents’ as his schooling was about to reach its end. He had seen her at a festival, with fairy lights like small embers strung from booth to booth – but the lights were dull, pale in comparison to the woman at the end of the street, with her smile so brilliant and laughter like bells.
To say he had fallen head over heels was perhaps an understatement. His face had flushed bright red when he had asked her to dinner – he was just a kid, with his hands in his pockets and eyes that couldn’t meet hers, but he was grateful that fate had decided to be on his side that day. He once wondered what changed for her to be ripped away from him, for the life that he desperately tried to protect to be destroyed.
“Kafka on the Shore.” Vincent set down his glass of water on the nightstand. “It’s a good book – plenty about fate.”
“No spoilers.”
Laughter. “None to be given. Just a mere comment.”
So anyone who’s in love gets sad when they think of their lover.
Sorrow never escaped Amir easily. It was what he felt whenever he saw her face in his dream: bloodied and empty, with eyes that pleaded for help. He heard his son’s cries; he heard her eternal sobbing; and all that remained within him when he awoke was a hollowed core, so empty that his body crumpled in on itself as gravity reminded him of the weight behind his past mistakes. What, he wondered, did he do to deserve the loss of his pieces?
Amir felt warmth in the empty spot next to him as Vincent slid under the blanket.
“Regardless of how you see the book,” Vincent hummed, “I enjoy living without thinking of where we are destined to be.”
“So you don’t believe in fate.”
“Well, it’s difficult. Just a few months ago, I would have laughed at myself now – because when our lives are consistently on the line, it’s easier to turn toward destiny, and hope that you’ll make it out alive.” His vision was clouded over, eyes lost in thought as he stared at blank ceiling. “Now, I don’t. It takes me out of the present, when I think too much about the future and where I hope fate brings me. If something happens, it’s because I deserved it, not because fate gifted me with it.”
Amir fell into silence.
It's like stepping back inside a room you have fond memories of, one you haven't seen in a long time.
Maybe he was thinking too much about where fate had brought him, once. But he wondered now what he did to deserve Vincent – the piece that would never replace Nora’s missing one, but instead filled in the other gaps in Amir’s life. Amir looked down at the book, still on the same page; he glanced over at Vincent, whose hazel irises were even more vibrant without his glasses in the way, as he continued to look through their roof and at the night sky in his head.
What Amir had once felt with Nora, he had felt with Vincent: the elation, the tenderness, the love. It was the same, but different – every emotion carried with it the same intensity, although it felt as if different heartstrings within Amir’s chest were being tugged with every memory recalled and created. In the end, though, what mattered to Amir was that he had found his missing piece once again.
This time, he wasn’t going to lose it.
He reached over for his pen, watching Étoile jump onto the bed out of the corner of his eye (which was then followed by Vincent’s quiet grumble), and clicked it open. He underlined the quote on the page, red ink a stark contrast on the black and white page, and shut the book to head to bed – hopefully to a calmer evening.