Work Text:
In theory, the bathtub has room for two. In the low light of the rosewater candles, there is space for the rippling shadow of someone else.
In practice, there is only room for the salts.
In theory, the coffee machine can hold two unique roasts. It can hold many more — all the dark and autumnal brews of the cosmos, the rich chocolate hues, the luxurious cups of Asdana-spiced gold.
In practice, you haven't touched that thing since earning your third doctorate. A good cup of tea will do.
In theory, a second person could fit in this bed. These pillows could cradle two heads, side by side. These sheets could warm two bodies.
But in practice, they could so easily break apart. Two celestial bodies, pulled closer by their own inexorable gravities, will meet their limit. One would yield, and disintegrate into the other's orbit — so sayeth all conventional knowledge of astrophysics. Or perhaps, if they are too stubborn, both will fall apart.
You roll
onto your side
and fall asleep.
There, behind your eyes, it's only the two of you. Celestial chains of gravity bind you together, gold and ebony, starlight and decay. You try to forget him, you really do. You try to put him out of your mind, but he chases you between the tall stacks of papers you have yet to grade, jumping and laughing like a child the faster you try to run from him. He chases you up and up as white marble steps unfurl at your feet, building towers you have never seen. You both run until the space so far beneath you is null and void. He tiptoes out onto the ledge, right in front of you.
And in this dream, in theory, this is what he says, his breathing unsteady, his eyes half-closed, and his lips parted just so, just the way you imagine when you're alone—
You know what'll happen if you keep doing that, Doctor. You know I can't hold back... you know, don't you? Oh, Doc, you want me to do it anyway, hmm? You want to feel me let go, don't you? You want it so badly, I know. I know it.
But you don't. You don't know it, and he offers no explanation. And every time you demand a reason or attempt to persuade him away from the precipice, his hand slips
between your fingers
and falls away.
In theory, this doesn't scare you.
It shouldn't. He has killed himself so many times in this place between places. Sometimes, he's done it right in front of you. When he thought you weren't looking, or that you wouldn't have noticed. It's not your fault—nor is it your business—when he chooses to slip in and out of reality. If he so craves that maladaptive daydream of death, fine. Let him have it.
But in practice, you wake up shaking, strings of violet hair clinging wet to your forehead.
No man can reason with his nightmares. Not even you. Maybe you should have gone for that PhD, instead. If such a degree exists, you should, in theory, be able to learn the science of erasing unwelcome thoughts, unnecessary feelings. You do it often enough while you're awake. Why not here?
Why not now?
You try to close your eyes again, and this time you meet him on a seashore of rosewater and salt. Candles flicker, affixed to torches that cast needle-point shadows in the dying sunlight. These shadows cross and overlap through the sand and along his limbs in impossible shapes, like a thousand blades piercing his torso. How many suns would have to shine—and at how many angles, no less—to create that illusion in reality?
"I'm sure you can do the math, Doctor," he tells you. He's right. You certainly could. "But I'm also sure it would be a waste of time."
It would.
"So what, then?" you question him, like a candle without a wick, like a teabag without leaves. "Will you finally let me rest?"
"I'll consider it."
"You and I both know that's not true."
"Then why ask, Doctor?"
"Because, probabalistically, the answer should eventually change."
"In theory," Aventurine says. He smiles, and the ocean of bathwater rolls away from the shore until only the salt is left. A massive wave curls, looming over both of you, suspended in stillness. "Follow me, Doctor. I want to show you something."
He can't show you anything new. He can only show you what you've already seen. This is how the mind works, barring outside interference or extenuating circumstance. You follow him anyway, and the salt below your feet turns to sugar. First white, then pure cane-beige, then buckwheat, then coffee grounds. You follow him anyway, and you reach three identical doors atop a pile of dark-roast beans. You fold your arms, unimpressed.
"Have you met my dear friend Monti, Doctor?"
"Who?"
"Monti Hall," Aventurine chuckles, hiding his mouth behind his glove. "Come on, you know this one." You do. "Let me explain."
You let him. He snaps his fingers. Off come the gloves, floating to the ground where he was just standing. You can't see him anymore, but you know he's nearby. The unsalted sea washes ashore, pooling at your ankles. A shimmering wind rustles the white robe draped over your shoulders; you are a wind chime in this vacant space, and when your body sways, a few plinking melodies ring out on the breeze. His voice reaches you somehow, clear as daybreak — the overtone to your solitary arpeggio. It comes from within you; it could not exist without you.
Behind one of three doors is something that you want. Let's say... rest. That's what you've been begging me for, isn't it? Sure. Your soft, cozy mattress is waiting for you, just beyond this little threshold. Behind the other two doors, however, you'll find nothing. Your odds of finding your way back to bed are one in three.
Following me so far?
"Yes."
Perfect. Now, take your pick — any door will do.
"The third."
The second door bursts. Mahogany splinters in all directions from its body, twisting into confetti as they fly. Once the dust and color settles, there is nothing. No rose-gold skyline, no coffee beans, no salt, no sea. Just a rectangular frame of matte black. You pinch the bridge of your nose.
"Was that necessary?"
Mmm, maybe not. But you have to admit that it's more fun.
Perhaps.
I agree. Anyway... as you can see, there was nothing behind Door #2. I saved you the heartbreak of finding out on your own. And, since I'm in such a giving mood, I'll also offer you a deal: if you'd like, you can switch doors.
"How generous."
Heh. You can keep your initial choice— Door #3—or you can swap to Door #1. Will you play it safe? Or will you risk it all, on the off-chance that your fortunes might change? You already know the correct answer.
You do.
So... what'll it be?
"I will retain my initial choice."
The wind pauses. Then, it drifts back exactly the way it came, swiftly in reverse. The coffee beans sink and hiss like raindrops beneath your feet, as if funneled down into the earth. You remain standing.
Oh please, Doctor. You know better than that.
"Do I?"
You do. Come on.
You fold your arms. Nervous tritones cut through the air.
How very unlike you. Is that really your choice? Can you really accept the indignity of being wrong?
"You think too highly of me, Aventurine."
Oh? Is that a new hypothesis of yours? Well, allow me to burst your dream bubble, Ratio: I'm disappointed. All you had to do was solve the problem. And yet, here we are, wasting each other's time. You tell me: is this worth it? Are you happy?
You remain standing.
Well?
"Yes. I am."
Unbelievable... great, then. That makes one of us.
"So it does. Now, would you kindly come out of there?"
The doors vanish, and so, too, does the void in between them.
Aventurine stands there, closing the gap. A raggedness carves out his features, sharpening them. His eyes look heavier than any makeup he wears would permit. Sleepless, gray-purple underneath. Both of you are laid bare, now.
You reach out, and this time, his hand slips
between your fingers
and it stays.
"Walk with me," you tell him softly, and he does. "I'm not ready to rest, yet."
You disintegrate together on the breeze.