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The Plague had ended months ago. After its demise, Rubin assumed he was done submitting to the Bachelor’s tyranny. However, for no reason Rubin could identify, that prick had remained in the Town-on-Gorkhon. Almost every afternoon, he visited Isidor’s old laboratory to teach Rubin. The Bachelor’s “teaching” meant hovering over Rubin’s shoulder to criticize his methodology and complain about his systematics. Today alone, Rubin twice considered knocking Daniil out and shipping him back to the Capital.
Inside the laboratory, Rubin stood in front of the Bachelor’s microscope. The lens magnified the box-shaped cells of brown twyre. It showed nothing extraordinary, except for the cellular biology itself. With one hand, Rubin sketched in his notebook. With the other, he zoomed the scope with a twist. On the back of his neck, Rubin felt the Bachelor’s sharp, disapproving exhale.
“You really don’t have to be here,” Rubin said for what must’ve been the hundredth time.
The Bachelor backed off, adjusted his cufflinks, and smiled, canines flashing. He reminded Rubin of a panther that concealed its murderous nature with excessive pampering. The Bachelor’s hair, sleek and overly conditioned, resembled well-licked fur. His eyes saw the world as a single prey, noting its pulse points.
“Nonsense,” Daniil said, pawing at his blood-colored cravat. “You are the least repulsive of Artemy’s friends. This is my preferred way of making an effort.”
Instead of asking what the hell that meant, Rubin deadpanned, “When are you returning to the Capital?”
The Bachelor frowned. If Rubin didn’t know better, he’d think Daniil was hurt. Guilt pinched his chest.
“Don’t you have, uh,” Rubin amended quickly, “wealth and women to return to?”
The Bachelor’s gaze darkened. When he spoke again, his voice was strained.
“You don’t know.”
Rubin sensed he made a mistake of some kind.
“Don’t know what?”
“I’m such an idiot,” the Bachelor muttered. The words were frighteningly out of character. But before Rubin could speak, the Bachelor’s apex-predator smile returned. With a forced cheeriness, he said, “I am in a sexual relationship with a man.”
Rubin went red.
“You’re… right, apologies,” Rubin said, embarrassed by his own presumption and the Bachelor’s bluntness. “Fuck—I meant congratulations.”
“No need,” the Bachelor replied. He was still smiling, but his tone sounded as if it was a death threat. “Apparently, I’ve been taking this relationship more seriously than warranted.”
“Oh.” Rubin shoved his nose back into the microscope. Clearly, the Bachelor, with his raised eyebrows and arms crossed, wanted to talk more—as he always did—but Rubin wasn’t sure what question to ask.
Eventually, he settled on, “How long has it been going on?”
“A few months,” the Bachelor answered.
“That sounds serious,” Rubin said in a way that he hoped was validating. “With your work schedule, commitment must be difficult.”
“I am called the Bachelor for my degree,” he reminded Rubin like a condescending schoolteacher, “but, yes, usually my relationships must be short-lived. I hoped this one would be different.” Beneath his apathetic facade, Rubin heard distinct notes of anger and disappointment.
The Bachelor murmured, almost to himself, “I don’t like being wrong.”
Rubin turned toward the Bachelor again. Having little to no romantic experience himself, he was feeling increasingly out of his depth. However, Rubin felt bad for him, whose eyes now had a faraway, glossy look.
“Do you two go on dates?”
A wrinkle twitched between the Bachelor’s eyebrows.
“I thought of them that way.”
“Well,” Rubin said, scratching his head, “did he dress up for them?”
The Bachelor’s laughter was short and cruel.
“No, he’s completely disgusting,” he hissed. “He’s worn the same clothes for years and washes them rarely. He reeks of sweat, dirt, and blood.”
Rubin was startled. Visions of the Bachelor’s lover as a shadowy, backwoods man wearing deerskin and wielding an axe populated his mind.
“Blood?” Rubin repeated. “Is he safe to be around?”
“Of course not,” the Bachelor said. “He’s killed many times before, and he’s far stronger than I am.”
He stared at Daniil, who, evidently, wasn’t kidding. Rubin felt queasy.
“That’s horrible.”
The Bachelor smirked.
“It certainly makes the bedroom intense.”
As proof, the Bachelor lowered his cravat to reveal a love bite as purple as wine. Several teeth marks had broken the skin. Rubin blushed darker. He hid his face in the microscope again. The cells were out of focus.
“His hands, Rubin, are so powerful yet precise. In public, he is very reserved, so it surprised me how vocal and animalistic he is in bed,” the Bachelor said as casually as a stranger would when giving directions. “He can go nonstop for hours. Afterwards, I can barely walk—”
“I don’t need to know any of that.”
Rubin was just shy of clapping his hands over his reddening ears. Was vulgarity the status quo in the Capital? Few people in the Town-on-Gorkhon readily explained their sex lives—not that Rubin would go around asking, of course. Despite his interest in medicine, he was prudish.
Unashamed, the Bachelor rolled his eyes.
“What, it’s not as if I’ll ever introduce you to each other.”
“Thank Boddho.”
The Bachelor went silent. Rubin twisted the knobs on both sides of the microscope, but clarity still evaded him. Instead of independent structures, the cells were an ugly blob. Another awkward minute passed.
Rubin cleared his throat.
“It’s obvious you care about him—”
The Bachelor recoiled, heels smacking the floorboards.
“No, I fucking don’t. It’s just sex,” he countered angrily. “I use him, and he uses me.”
Rubin sighed, still fiddling with the microscope.
“As long as you both are aware of that,” he mumbled.
“What does that mean?” the Bachelor spat.
In frustration, Rubin pushed away the microscope.
“I don’t know, Dankovsky.” Rubin faced the Bachelor head-on. “We’re people. Sometimes we hurt each other, and sometimes it’s a misunderstanding, and sometimes it’s both.”
So truly did Rubin believe these words that he regretted saying them aloud. It was too revealing of his innermost thoughts, especially as of late.
Rubin never had a real father beyond Isidor. When he died and Artemy was nowhere to be found, Rubin was so confused and furious—at all menkhu, at Boddho, at the Earth—that he wanted the nations to burn. He wanted wailing and gnashing of teeth. Most of all, he wanted Artemy to make it right.
Their estrangement began because of a misunderstanding. Then it continued because of real harm—real betrayal. In the end, Artemy failed the Kin. The Plague was stopped instead by the Changeling. After that, no amount of reconciliation could make Artemy the hero Rubin once thought he was.
The Bachelor’s stony expression softened.
“Allow me,” he said and pushed Rubin aside to fix the microscope.
During the evening, two weeks later, Rubin and Artemy sat on the porch of Isidor’s house. Their boots dug into the soil. They sipped herbal tea. Out of all his childhood friends, Rubin liked Artemy best because he could do what Gravel and Bad Grief could never: sit in silence. Rubin and Artemy watched the wind fold the steppe over itself. They were like children pretending to be men.
Suddenly, Artemy said, “You are wise, Rubin.”
Rubin expected subsequent conditionals. When none came, he hesitantly replied, “Thank you.”
“And a good listener,” Artemy added. Absent-mindedly, he clicked his mug against the porch. “My father once called you a lockbox of secrets.”
Rubin rested his forearms on his knees.
“You can stop now.”
Artemy glanced at him.
“What?”
“We’re brothers,” Rubin reminded him. “I don’t need your flattery. Out with whatever you want to ask me.”
Artemy chuckled. “That obvious, huh?”
“You’ve never been subtle,” Rubin admitted.
Artemy’s cloudless eyes pierced the sunset. With his jaw set and posture rigid, he was a demigod made of marble. His singular sign of life was the vein pulsing in his neck. After a moment, Artemy whispered so quietly that Rubin almost didn’t hear it.
“I am in love.”
Rubin smiled. His mind raced with possibilities of who it was. Maybe Artemy had recently reconnected with a fellow student from university or a nurse he met during his military service. Of course, there were also worthy women at home. For instance, Rubin’s dormant suspicion that Lara was more than a friend to Artemy awoke.
“Finally Cub wants to start a bear cave of his own,” Rubin joked. If Bad Grief were here, he’d suggest Rubin leave the joking to someone funny. “When did this begin?”
Artemy still wasn’t looking at him.
“Three months ago.”
That was during the Plague. Rubin sat up straight.
“That long?”
Artemy nodded. Rubin was unsettled. He and Artemy had fought viciously during that time, yes, but they had made amends since then. Friends who keep secrets are soon not friends at all.
“Have you told anyone else?” Rubin asked, fearing Artemy’s answer. He always was the last person to know why everyone else was laughing.
“No one,” Artemy said.
That struck Rubin as strange. Some of the Kin believed the menkhu should be celibate and aromantic. Rubin was not one of these, but maybe that fact explained Artemy’s hesitancy to confess.
“Thank you for confiding in me,” Rubin said. “I’m happy for you.”
Artemy rubbed his neck, then shrugged.
“Don’t be,” he murmured. “He doesn’t kiss me on the mouth anymore.”
Rubin blinked. Had he heard the pronoun correctly? Their culture condoned men taking male lovers, but many expected such inclinations to eventually shake off. However, this stigmatization wasn’t why Rubin was ignorant of Artemy’s sexuality. They had simply never discussed it before. Whenever Artemy, Gravel, and Bad Grief talked about sex, Rubin was quick to escape.
“He leaves right after we fuck,” Artemy went on. “He won’t speak my name.”
Rubin felt thrown out to sea. To steady his nerves, he folded his hands. He once copied the gesture from Isidor, then never dropped it.
“Even when I’m inside of him—”
“Okay! Okay, I get the point,” Rubin interjected. “Why are you telling me this?”
When Artemy looked at Rubin, he surprised him again. Even during the wake of his father’s passing and the Plague, there were few times that Rubin watched Artemy cry. It seemed impossible. Now, tears flowed freely down Artemy’s cheeks.
“Please, Rubin,” he whispered, “tell me what I did wrong.”
The pity evoked within Rubin was briefly overpowered by disbelief.
“You’ve been secretly sleeping with this man, whom I’ve never met, for three months,” Rubin said slowly, “and you want me to tell you what went wrong?”
Artemy snorted. He wiped his face with the back of his hand.
“When you say it like that, it sounds stupid.”
“Because it is stupid,” Rubin pointed out.
Artemy brought his knees to his chest and hugged them. The streaks of dirt and lines of pockets on his pants creased.
“He and I are complicated. At first, it seemed so unreal,” Artemy murmured. “I was terrified to mess everything up.”
Rubin huffed. For all his virtues, Artemy had his tragic vices. His pride was one.
“Well, you did,” Rubin pointed out, “and you will do so again.”
Artemy scoffed.
“That’s goddamn encouraging, Stakh.”
“That’s the truth,” Rubin insisted. “If I’ve learned anything from being Isidor’s assistant, it’s that to expect perfection is ludicrous.” He set down his mug and leaned back on his hands. Upon him, the sun shone brilliantly.
“But by way of imperfection,” Rubin said, “we learn.”
This was his best attempt at encouragement, yet Rubin feared it would fall flat. Nonetheless, Artemy smiled a little. He shoved Rubin’s shoulder.
“Maybe you actually are wise, Rubin.”
“Oh, shut up.”
Rubin stood, dusted himself off, and extended his hand. Artemy took it.
“Just promise me one thing.”
Artemy’s brow tightened.
“What is it?”
“Tell Gravel about him as soon as possible,” Rubin said with grave sincerity. “If she finds out I knew first, I’m dead.”
Artemy laughed.
The following morning, someone pounded on the front door of Isidor’s laboratory. Rubbing his tired eyes, Rubin opened it.
He was too exhausted to be embarrassed about being caught in his night robe. At least his baldness assured no bedhead. Fortunately, the Bachelor was similarly, for once, less than polished. His brooch was misaligned and hair disheveled.
“It’s before dawn,” Rubin said.
“I’ll be efficient.”
The Bachelor shoved past Rubin. Next to the work desk, he deposited his carpetbag on the ground. He began to grab the supplies that he had loaned Rubin, such as beakers and flasks, and throw them in.
Rubin yawned. He guessed that, like every other scientist, the Bachelor’s Muse arrived at inconvenient times.
“What are you doing?”
“Packing,” the Bachelor said harshly, “for my return to the Capital. Isn’t that what you wanted?”
Rubin was wide awake now.
“Wait.”
Rubin lunged forward and grabbed the microscope before it fell into the bag. Carefully, he placed it on the countertop. At his nearness, Daniil went still, save for heavy breathing. Rubin took his shoulders.
“Just slow down. What’s going on?”
Daniil glared at the floor.
“He wrote me a letter,” Daniil whispered. “Slipped it under the Stillwater doorstep.”
Rubin shuddered. The Bachelor’s insane lover probably signed his name in urine.
“And?”
“It said he wants to talk,” Daniil confessed, voice breaking. “I know what that means.”
Rubin squinted.
“You do?”
“Yes, and I don’t care,” the Bachelor said, with newfound, faux cheerfulness. His smile was mean. “It wasn’t serious. I was just some dirty, little creature he could get off on before he found someone that mattered—”
“Don’t talk about yourself like that,” Rubin said. He hated to inflate Daniil’s ego, except for now. “You’re the nationally renowned researcher who survived the Sand Pest.”
Daniil’s shoulders trembled with self-hating laughter.
“My research laboratory burned. My vaccines failed. I survived only because of a magical, teenage girl.”
Silence swallowed the space. The first oranges of dawn began to spawn on the horizon. Rubin let go of Daniil.
“You’re leaving, then?”
“Yes.”
Rubin pursed his lips.
“If that’s what you want.”
“It is,” Daniil said.
It was a lie, Rubin could tell, but Daniil was free to do as he wished. Anyway, it was probably best for Daniil to leave his psychopath lover and return home. After everything the Bachelor had suffered, he deserved to heal. If his healing happened beyond the Town-on-Gorkhon, so be it.
Despite his constant criticism and complaints, Daniil was Rubin’s friend. So, Rubin picked up the microscope.
“Let me help you pack.”
That evening, Rubin sat on the couch in Lara’s living room. After being reunited, the four childhood friends—Gravel, Bad Grief, Artemy, and Rubin—promised to recreate their once-close circle. They agreed to meet in the middle of each week for drinks, rotating who hosted. Today was Lara’s day.
So far, these meetings rekindled friendship. It wasn’t as natural as it once was, but it was hopeful. Rubin began to believe there were no final goodbyes, just forked roads and eventual recrossing. With roads in mind, Rubin wondered if the Bachelor had arrived safely in the Capital. During the Bachelor’s frenzied departure, he had failed to ask for an address and that was unfortunate. It would’ve been nice to exchange letters. Rubin surprised himself by hoping that one day he’d meet Daniil again by serendipity.
When Bad Grief flopped down next to him, Rubin came back to the present. Bad Grief threw his feet up on the coffee table. His heels squeaked against the waxy surface. As compensation for his thinness and meekness in adolescence, Bad Grief always took up as much space as possible and made a big show of everything. Now, he made a big show of smacking his timepiece.
“And that’s time!” Bad Grief announced. “It’s official. Artemy was the first to flake. Who could’ve guessed?”
From behind, Lara thwacked Bad Grief’s head with her hand.
“Feet down.”
“You’re cruel, Gravel,” Bad Grief growled, rubbing the sore spot, but he obeyed her nonetheless.
In front of them, Lara set down a tray topped with pastries, both savory and sweet, alongside four glasses of twyrine.
Reaching forward and taking a drink, Bad Grief conceded, “But you aren’t totally irredeemable.”
Lara wiped her hands on her skirt, then retrieved a deck of cards from her pocket. She shuffled them with startling efficiency. Her fingers moved like the gears of an intricate machine.
“What first?” Lara asked. “Blackjack? Poker?” Her eyes glimmered greedily. Already, she had calculated her chances of profit and found them favorable.
Rubin frowned.
“We should wait for Artemy.”
Bad Grief asked happily, “Remember a few months ago when you wanted to kill him?”
Rubin asked unhappily, “Remember when you actually tried to kill him?”
Bad Grief slammed his hand on the table.
He shouted, “Artemy tripped!”
“C’mon, this again?” Lara said, raising her eyebrows. “That was over a decade ago.”
Bad Grief was still shouting.
“You motherfuckers agreed he tripped!”
Rubin held up his hands in surrender, biting back a smile. Lara made no effort to conceal hers.
Throwing up his hands, Bad Grief grumbled, “Sure, everyone blame the convicted criminal.”
With a shrug, Rubin suggested, “Maybe the shabnak-adyr pushed Artemy into that ditch.”
He popped a crescent-shaped lemon cookie into his mouth.
“I know you’re mocking me, Stakh,” Bad Grief said, glaring at him, “but if you actually did your fucking research, it was a place of frequent sightings.”
“Alleged sightings,” Lara corrected.
Bad Grief gasped in offense.
“From reliable sources!”
The front door opened. Rain poured outside. Lightning crackled. Soaking and shadowy, Artemy stood in the doorway.
“Look who decided to show up,” Bad Grief said not unkindly.
Artemy trudged into the living room. Fists quivered at his sides.
“Artemy?” Lara said cautiously.
Artemy looked at Rubin. His eyes burned with fury. Before Rubin could speak, Artemy crossed the room, seized Rubin by his lapel, and shoved him against the wall. Scraped knuckles anchored Rubin’s flesh.
“I trusted you,” Artemy hissed. “Haven’t you taken enough from me?”
Rubin cried out, “I don’t know what you’re—”
Artemy slammed him into the wall again. Pain flared. Rubin’s vision blurred.
“Don’t lie!” Artemy shouted.
Lara’s deck of cards scattered on the floor. With both hands, she pulled on Artemy’s arms.
“Stop it!” she screamed.
For a horrible moment, Artemy hesitated, then he let go. Rubin crumbled to his knees, gasping. Trembling with emotion, Artemy loomed over him. Lara held him back.
“Murky last saw Daniil with you,” Artemy snarled. “Where is he?”
Rubin stared at the ground. Half of him wanted to keep Daniil’s confidence and the other half found Artemy undeserving of anything.
Artemy seized Rubin by the collar and lifted.
“I won’t ask again.”
Bad Grief shoved Artemy hard. He dropped Rubin and stumbled. Lara dodged out of the way.
“What’s gotten into you?” Bad Grief demanded. He crouched by Rubin’s side. “We’re all supposed to be friends.” It sounded like the naïve wish of a child.
Artemy said nothing. He only glared as Bad Grief helped Rubin stagger to his feet.
“Daniil told me he was returning to the Capital,” Rubin answered, only so that Artemy wouldn’t hurt anyone else. “He left this morning.”
Artemy paled. He turned, pushed past Lara, and ran out of her house. The door swung on its hinges. It was quiet again.
“Can you explain any of that?” Bad Grief asked.
Rubin just shook his head.
After Artemy was gone for three days, Rubin found a letter on his doorstep. It read:
Rubin
I am sorry for wrongly accusing you. We’ve been brothers longer than enemies, and I let my anger blind me to that. It isn’t fair to ask, but come to Stillwater tonight. I want to explain everything.
Artemy
P.S. If you have any love left for me, please don’t tell him anything I told you.
Rubin appreciated the apology, though he wasn’t ready to forgive him. His nervous system hadn’t forgotten the murderous way Artemy had rushed at him. It probably never would. However, the meeting location and the postscript intrigued him. So, when the humid, frog-infested evening came, Rubin came to Stillwater.
The Bachelor opened the door. Happiness colored his face. Excitement strengthened his body. He was a decade younger.
“You’re back,” Rubin said dumbly.
The Bachelor smirked.
“Disappointed?”
Rubin shook his head.
“It’s good to see you.”
The Bachelor surged forward and hugged Rubin. He was stunned. Physical touch was unlike either of them. Even handshakes were few and far between. Awkwardly, Rubin patted his back once, then twice. Daniil turned to whisper in his ear.
“If you say a single word, I’ll put you in a petri dish.”
Rubin blinked.
“You what?”
The Bachelor clapped his shoulder, smiling mysteriously, and then moved into the living room. Confused, Rubin followed. Other guests were there. The children, Murky and Sticky, sat on the couch. Dirty-haired, Murky carried a contraption of twigs that vaguely resembled a weapon. Sticky looked on with interest, gesturing and murmuring to her. Like the mountains surrounding the steppe, at the back of the room, Bad Grief and Lara stood with their arms crossed. Rubin took his place between them.
“Damn,” Bad Grief muttered, lifting his chin at him. “The whole gang’s here.”
Rubin shrugged.
From the kitchen, Artemy entered the room. He looked handsome: freshly shaven and dressed in his nicest sweater and slacks. The Bachelor walked over and stood by his side.
Then the strangest thing happened. Artemy took the Bachelor’s hand and intertwined their fingers. Artemy met Rubin’s eyes. He offered a soft, hesitant smile. Like a shot from Commander Block’s cannon, an epiphany hit Rubin.
If you have any love left for me, please don’t tell him anything I told you.
“Oh no,” Rubin said.
Bad Grief wolf-whistled.
“No motherfucking way,” he said, sincerely impressed.
The Bachelor blushed. His gaze averted to the floor.
If you say a single word, I’ll put you in a petri dish.
“Oh no,” Rubin repeated quietly. Then louder, almost begging, he said, “Please, no.”
Right then, every conversation came back to him. The Bachelor’s faceless, debauched lover was his brother, Artemy, the entire time. That dandy-bastard told Rubin every detail—too many details.
Lara hit Rubin’s shoulder.
“Get over yourself!” she hissed. “Be supportive.”
“But you—they… I—”
Rubin covered his face. Wisdom was a curse.