Delta approached the building. Silently, he worked the mechanism of the back window until he was able to slide it open. He lifted himself up into its frame, pulling one leg up and over into the house’s quiet interior. The gentle trickle of water grew audible. Only the light of dormant electronics — and the strange and ghostly blue of the tank — guided his way. He took a moment to appreciate the aquarium. Sharp-toothed, docile things stared back at him with curious eyes. Even small things like that were enough to make him homesick.

Delta found a comfortable seat in the empty living room and waited.

~

Tires crunched on the gravel of the driveway, and a two long beams of light were cast through the front windows to herald the car’s arrival. Delta steadied himself, settling further into the chair as one hand creeped up towards the lamp.

The front door opened, and only for a minute was the entering figure silhouetted against the night sky. As the door closed, all the darkness was made equal again. Delta’s pulse still beat beneath his conscious attention — and he could parse the figure just fine. He reached one psychic limb out to lock the door as he flickered the lamp light on.

Simon startled, falling back against the door in an appropriate panic. He did this before his eyes had adjusted, before he even recognized the intruder. When the door did not open, and he saw the scene in front of him, it did not work to calm him.

Delta was looking more like his old self than he had in years. His black hair hung loose at a familiar length, and his eyes glowed with the same dangerous intensity. He was dressed in black now, so as not to draw attention to himself as he moved through the undergrowth. It all worked to make the image more dreamlike and uncanny as he lounged there, in the flesh. He watched impassively as the old scientist came to his senses — whatever sense remained.

“Oh my god,” Simon said in hushed greeting.

“…Oh my god.”

“Hello, Simon,” Delta returned.

“Delta.” There was a controlled curtness in how the man handled his name. A little too firm to be soothing. Simon slid back against the wall, scanning with wide eyes behind larger spectacles. “…Hey. Hey,” Simon said when the boy started to move. One of his hands raised up —open palm — to stop him, or to signal one half of a surrender. The scientist spoke more hastily.

“I know you’re mad at me,” Simon soothed. “And you have every right to be. But let’s talk about this first, okay? We’ll talk. Don’t do anything rash.”

The fear was plain on his face. Delta tilted his head to the side. He frowned.

“I’m not here to hurt you, Simon.” His voice came out calmer, softer. It was hushed too, with a kind of mute horror. How could he even think that? When had Delta ever hurt him?

Nevertheless, Simon’s gaze remained fearful and untrusting. 

“You’re alive,” he stated.

“Yes,” Delta confirmed.

The scientist shook his head as he slowly pulled himself away from the door, further into the house. He said: “I knew there was something…” but he trailed off and did not finish the thought. Delta watched him with a placid ease. His power hummed throughout the room, granting him an unfamiliar kind of safety. They both knew it.

“I need to sit down, okay?” Simon said. He sort

of staggered over to the counter, leaning up against one of the kitchen stools. His movement was agitated. He was dressed well. He no longer stared at Delta — either because the disbelief was fading or because he recognized that he wouldn’t see anything coming, if it did come. “What do you want?”

“…What do I want?” Delta repeated back, deadpan.

“Yes. I-,” Simon cut himself off, pausing to press his hand to his temple. He took a deep breath, and spoke less hurried from there on: “Forgive me, Delta. It’s been a rough few years.”

That it had. 

“But — how are you alive?” Simon asked.

He was met with the same unyielding cyan blankness. Simon deflated a little in return. It didn’t take much for him to tell when Delta was in a bad mood.

“Industry secret. You’ll forgive me if I don’t share the specifics with you. Surely,” Delta managed. It sent a little jolt through him, bordering much too close to real rudeness. Simon let him get away with a lot, but taking a tone like that was unacceptable.

“Mm.” Simon removed his jacket. “Sure. You’ve earned that. Did you- did you mean that earlier? That you’re not here to hurt me?” 

“Why would I want to hurt you?” Delta asked, wholly genuine. “You were nice to me.”

“We tortured you.”

Delta shrunk back, shifting uncomfortably in the seat. Chills ran up and down him. It didn’t feel good to hear. Almost timidly, he said: “Can’t you just be happy to see me?”

“Oh, come here,” Simon sighed. His exasperation could be dangerous. “Let me look at you.”

Obediently, Delta rose and approached. Simon, thankfully, was not so bold as to attempt to touch him. Delta might not have been able to handle that. 

There wasn’t all that much to see. Long black sleeves and loose pants covered most of Delta’s skin, leaving really just his hands and face exposed. No bruises were visible anywhere, nor extent at all. There was just the electrical scarring along his bare neck. 

Simon studied him for a few long moments, before his composure began to crumble.

“Oh, honey,” he lamented, shielding his eyes with his hand. He sniffled. “You look healthy.”

Delta flushed blue beneath the skin, growing bashful under the appraisal. He felt nervously at his wrists, as if appreciating the flesh there, the fact it wasn’t rubbed raw. Simon recovered quickly enough. Somewhat. His eyes were oddly bright even in the dim light, and his voice still came out a little choked. Only in that moment did Delta realize how much older his handler looked.

“I’m not an idiot, Delta. I know I failed you,” Simon spelled out with caution. Despite the slow rhythm, his manner was intense and serious. “It was never supposed to be like that. You were still a child. I should’ve done a better job of protecting you. I’m sorry.”

Something shattered in the back of the weapon’s mind. Dangerous tears surged forward in the recesses, but the company kept them at bay. Delta still couldn’t quite bring himself to cry in front of a handler. He bit his own lip hard before he could find the words to speak again. Borrowed words. He echoed them back:

“You’re sorry now?” He couldn’t keep the bitter frustration out of his voice. Delta took a step back, looking around the room like it might hold the answers for him. He glowered: “Why is everyone sorry now? Instead of when it mattered? I don’t need it now. It doesn’t do me any good.”

The pain in his chest was so immense for a second that he could hardly breathe. That wasn’t what he wanted to say. He didn’t want to be angry. He didn’t want to be hurt.

“…Everyone?” Simon parsed. A few beats of silence passed. He sounded more fearful as he spoke again, but retained a cautious gentleness. “Delta, what did you come here for?”

With that, Delta stood down, falling a few steps back into the darkness as he tried to recover a more natural way of existing in the space. His own directive had felt distant for a moment, swept up as he was in the shock of seeing him. He felt like Simon had disarmed him somehow.

“Just want what’s mine,” Delta remembered. “I want any files you have on me. Everything you documented. You owe it to me.”

His handler considered this for a moment. He propped one elbow on the counter, staring off into space: “Is that all?”

It was.

“Alright.” Simon rapped his knuckles against the surface, standing up. “Sit tight. Can I get you anything? Are they feeding you enough?”

“I’m okay, sir.” Delta watched him carefully.

The sightline had to be maintained. He paid careful attention to Simon’s hands, to anything he touched. The scientist moved further into the kitchen. He turned the burner on beneath the kettle. The flame of the stove provided a new, surreal light to the space. 

“It’s Galatea, isn’t it?” Simon guessed. “Took you in?”

Delta didn’t respond at first. After careful consideration, he answered: “I don’t belong to anyone now.”

A blush rose up to his cheeks as he said it. He found it a little trite, a little embarrassing to admit, but he meant it sincerely. It’d taken a lot of work to internalize. It still felt so new.

Simon placed dried leaves into two mugs. Delta read the writing on them: from interplanetary conferences, from tourist traps. It tickled him a little to recognize the names. He’d killed people there.

It took about twenty minutes for all the physical documents to be gathered in one place. Only with great hesitance did Delta let his handler out of his sight, and not once did he dim the sphere of influence. The phone lines to the house had been cut in preparation, but as far as he could tell, Simon made no attempt to alert anyone. Instead, he poured the hot water over the leaves, sliding the drink over to Delta. 

Simon must have noticed the hesitation, because he took a sip from his own cup before he spoke.

“Do you think I’m going to drug you?” he asked.

“You have drugged me,” Delta stared.

“Ah. Touché.” Simon shrugged. He took another sip. “I missed you terribly, Delta. I’ve replayed those final weeks over and over again in my mind for as long as you’ve been gone. I’m glad that you’re free now. I wouldn’t do anything to harm you.”

“…Wouldn’t you?” Delta asked softly. “You beat me until I cried.”

Simon looked at him sadly. “I’m sorry. I told you I was sorry.”

He seemed like he wanted to say something else, but was having difficulty with it. Delta glanced around the room. He felt tempted to give the man an out, some dormant draw of sympathy. But the pain was so acute. He was so sad.

“I’m retired,” Simon followed up, eventually. “I’ve tried to put it all behind me. I don’t do much of anything these days. Besides litigation. Maybe you heard.”

Delta raised an eyebrow in polite inquiry. Simon seemed to smile at that, amused at the flicker of emotion on a face so characterized by its absence. He continued.

“Nezu gave me the runaround. Did it to virtually everyone on Paris’s staff, but he had a special interest in me. Told me it was the labs or the rope. I refused. I told him I’d be no good at it, that my expertise had nothing to do with whatever freak show he was running. He got me blacklisted, but he seems reluctant to have me killed. He thinks if he intimidates me enough, I’ll cave. But I don’t want anything to do with it. I won’t make the same mistake twice.”

There was a lot of shock that came with the whole notion of Simon speaking to him like a person. In captivity, he treated Delta much like a child. The subtle acknowledgment of his intelligence, of his capacity for reason — it left him a little bitter. But he turned the information over in his head. He resisted the urge to apologize for the trouble.

“Do you think I was a mistake?” Delta tilted his head.

Simon hesitated. He said: “I love you, Delta. I’m sorry.”

Delta nodded, blushing. Okay. He didn’t know how he would’ve answered that either, in all fairness.

The mention of Nezu and the labs made him very, very nervous. The term freak show made him very, very upset.

“It’s okay,” Delta answered. “I’m not mad at you. I’m really not. I never wanted for you to get hurt over any of this.”

He played idly with the sleeve of his shirt. The documents were spread out before him like an autopsy, and he was reluctant to touch it the way he might shrink back near a corpse. 

“Are you going to be okay?” Delta mouthed.

Simon shrugged, taking another sip from his cup. Delta’s remained untouched. Carefully, he placed his nails by the nearest workbook.

A cursory glance over the papers revealed their exact age. They were all dated after Simon had taken the case, and recounted events and developments in the same person. Delta read out a physical description of himself as a young teenager, at a shorter height, with injuries that must have been very shocking to see the first time. Simon’s footnotes described him as quiet and polite and smug. 

Delta bit his lip. A map of a nearby canyon was dotted with crosses which marked how the practice was going. There were readouts of his blood pressure throughout the training day, how his neural activity fluctuated. There were progress reports. Write ups.

107 had to be disciplined today. The doctor gave him twenty with the cane, which nears the legal limit for someone his age. I’m told he doesn’t receive the same protections legally, but it’s still a good benchmark to follow.

This wasn’t even what he came here for. Why pause to read it?

When he looked up, Simon’s gaze was settled on that same excerpt, lips pressed tight together with what was only sane mortification. The vision comforted Delta somewhat. Barely.

He flipped the page, skimming a few further mission reports. Allusions to the then-living Constantine, which made his heart hurt. Medical documents. More sparsely, fragments of Delta’s own psyche that he’d for some reason felt compelled to reveal.

Kid had a dream about wading in dark water. He said he could feel skin and hair beneath his feet, like he was treading over a drowned corpse. He couldn’t breathe when he woke up. I put him on oxygen and gave him some pills to calm down. I’ll let him sleep late tomorrow to make up for it.

That wasn’t what he came here for either.

~

“…Most of this is useless to me,” Delta concluded, having worked through the whole hoard.

Simon glanced up. He’d been trawling through it too, a gesture that read to Delta as blatantly nostalgic.

“You’re not the first one to come asking for these, for the record. Government asked me to hand over all of it, as well as all of Martino’s work. I told them it’d already been destroyed. That was a real request of his, by the way. He never wanted the experiments replicated. Threw a fit when anyone tried to talk to him about cloning. God forbid.”

Simon tapped his fingers gently on the counter, and seemed to consider his words very carefully. Quietly, he asked: “Whatever happened to him, anyway?”

“I killed him,” Delta answered.

The room fell silent, void of air. All that remained was the gentle trickle and the rippling of water from the aquarium in the adjacent room. Delta did his best not to look Simon in the face after that, eyes carefully averted, but he could sense the displeasure written across it.

“…He had children,” Simon said finally.

“Oh, he had children?” Delta scoffed. 

Contempt grew in him like a cancer, and for a minute he felt too sick for words. Simon raised his hands in mock surrender. Even he had to have understood how he’d misspoken.

Delta sulked, too caught up in the death dream to parse what had been said at first. He glanced up.

“…Did you just say Martino’s work was destroyed?” he repeated. He could practically hear his own heart rate increasing.

“Well, I said that. But it isn’t. I’ve still got most of the hard copies backed up, and I saved his work computer.” Simon winked.

Delta’s hands stilled on the countertop as his expression grew vastly more intense. “Please bring them to me immediately.”

He did so. Delta wondered why he hadn’t just gathered them from the jump, but upon closer inspection, much of it was borderline incomprehensible. He’d need Apollo to translate it for him, if he really wanted to know. And he wasn’t sure if he did. The sections he could understand were not comforting.

There were two laptops. Delta recognized both, but only one made his heart drop.

“Found it when I searched your room,” Simon said casually. “I never mentioned it to anyone. I couldn’t get it unlocked, so I figured you didn’t want anyone going through it.”

Delta froze, staring at him. He couldn’t quite place the feeling. Gratitude was the closest thing. He supposed this unnamable regard was the one which had characterized most of his interactions with Simon, and which might only increase from then on.

He gathered the laptops up, throwing them in his bag.

“They’re both locked,” Simon clarified. “Be careful not to break them.”

“I got it,” Delta answered. Or, at least Kitty would have it. He was shaking a little. Don’t break it. Don’t break it.

It was getting late. He’d stayed longer than he meant to. Lorelai would worry. He needed enough time to retreat under cover of darkness. But Delta gave a final glance around the room, and felt his own resistance. He’d lose control of the room when he left it.

“Are you going to be okay?” he repeated. “The litigation, I mean. Are they going to let you off the hook for it? Is there anything I can do?”

Delta had been let off the hook in a way that still shocked him to this day. He found himself wishing the same for most of his contemporaries. Neither Simon nor Paris ever seemed to be punished for what they’d actually done wrong. The Empire always came down on them for the wrong reasons.

“We’ll see,” Simon answered, a slightly grating air of mystery. Gentler, he added: “Don’t worry, kiddo. I can handle myself. I handled the rest of it.”

Of course. There would have been nobody else around to manage the aftermath. By all accounts, Simon was the sole survivor.

Delta had heard the story before, but he did his part now to confirm. He wanted another source: “Do you know what happened to Paris?”

“Nope. He left about a week after you. Probably dead in a ditch right now, good fucking riddance.”

Delta didn’t object to that. He shifted the bag on his shoulder. “Did he say anything to you?”

“Please don’t go looking for him now,” Simon begged. “It’s not worth being wherever he ended up. Stay out of imperial territory, Delta. Haven’t you gotten your fill of it? You shouldn’t have even come this close.”

Delta shrugged. He didn’t feel like he was in any danger. Even the next part felt more like a formality than anything else.

“I trust you’ll keep this meeting between us, then? That I won’t have to worry about you ratting me out?”

“Come on. Who do you think I am? I owe you that much.”

“I trust you’ll keep this meeting between us, then? That I won’t have to worry about you ratting me out?”

“Come on. Who do you think I am? I owe you that much.”

“Alright. Remember I know where you live.”

“You can’t even say it with a straight face.”

Delta frowned. He thought his face was straight. But he couldn’t bring himself to seriously threaten the man. It felt improper and it felt mean. It was a betrayal of his own heart.

He stepped forward cautiously. Despite all the discordant context, Simon somehow seemed to understand what he wanted. He extended his arms as Delta got closer, wrapping him up into a hug. 

“Thank you,” Delta said, muffled. 

Simon ruffled his hair, which brought a self-conscious glow to his face. Delta slowly pulled away, making his way back to the window.

“Take care of yourself, Delta,” Simon called after him.

Delta nodded, mouthing a small “you too” as he exited. 

He felt the weight of the laptops in his bag, and found a real comfort in it.

~~~

tags:

@catnykit @snakebites-and-ink @scoundrelwithboba @whatwhump

@pumpkin-spice-whump @deluxewhump @fuckass1000 @fuckcapitalismasshole @defire

@micechomper @writereleaserepeat @aloafofbreadwithanxiety @floral-comet-whump @littlebookworm69

@lordcatwich @human-123-person @paperprinxe @whomeidontknowthem @sacredwrath

@bacillusinfection @ichortwine @whump-queen @lumpywhump @fuckclimatechange

@jumpywhumpywriter @sirnef-fenris @the-monarch-whumperfly @doumidas @toyybox @half-duck @secretwhumplair @boyleftoutintherain @inhurtandincomfort @whumpawaydarling @cepheusgalaxy @palinoiahart

“Thank you,” he said. The cup was cold from the ice rattling inside and slick with quickly-formed condensation. He slipped the paper off the straw and took a sip. Sweet, carbonated, and refreshing. He liked the prickle in his mouth and throat.

Port, in turn, handed Beau the bag of food from his lap. The drive-thru was open at this hour, but not the dining area. Beau had tucked the car into the far corner of the parking lot, beyond the reach of the harsh street lamp, windows cracked to allow for fresh air. 

Out of habit, Port waited for Beau to start eating first. It felt less presumptuous that way. The salty, greasy taste over his tongue brought back another, stronger wave of whatever it was he had felt before. He actually feared he might throw up for a moment, but it passed quickly. He found himself craving more. When was the last time he had eaten a full meal? He had not had much of an appetite lately.

“Do you prefer to be called Porter, or Port?” Beau asked out of the blue.

He swallowed hastily. “Either is fine, sir. I go by both.” 

“Okay. And you can call me Beau. Just Beau.”

It seemed nobody wanted him to use proper terms of respect. “Is it this casual everywhere in New Mexico?”

Beau was ripping his chicken nuggets into tiny pieces in a way Port found incredibly odd. “Well, we don’t really have that southern etiquette culture here. But I’ve never been one for honorifics, either way,” he said. He smiled to himself as he tore another nugget in half. “Maybe I am too casual.”

Port shrugged. “Who’s to say?”

“Only myself. May I ask you something?”

“Yes,” Port answered, though he feared the question may be overly personal.

“Why did you decide to take that walk?” Beau asked it very casually, not even looking in Port’s direction. His lidded eyes fixed on the lid of his cup as he took a drink.

Why had he? His half-formed plan had been to keep walking forever and disappear. Not until he died, necessarily. Just until he was gone. Maybe he would have turned around and walked to town, instead, but there was about as much for him there as there was in the desert. He would have no life, either way.

“I wanted to see if I could,” Port decided.

He saw Beau turn to him out of his peripheral. “And what did you find out?”

“In some sense, I could. In another, I couldn’t.”

He nodded. “I see.”

“I shouldn’t have,” Port admitted.

“Why not?”

Port met his eyes. He could see him quite clearly in the dark, especially backlit by the restaurant lights coming through the rear window in a way that made his flyaway hairs seem to glow. His face was awfully earnest to be asking a question with such an obvious answer. “Because I wasn’t allowed.”

“Did anybody tell you you couldn’t?”

“No.”

Beau tossed his hand in the air like that was a sensical rebuttal. 

“That’s not how that works,” Port said. It came out more brusque than intended— who did he think he was, speaking to him like that? “Sorry,” he amended.

Beau waved his hand again. “Speak your mind. Have you talked with Rida about household expectations?”

“Sort of. Not really.” 

“I think that would be a good step to take.” 

“Are you going to tell her I left?”

Beau shook his head, braids swaying. “No.”

“Are you supposed to?”

His eyes slid away from Port's face, aiming towards the windshield. “I have the freedom to choose not to.” 

“Hm.” Port took another of his burger, too aware of the way his teeth tore at the chunk of meat. “Mr. Oz never let Sonny out of the house,” he said, after it slid down his throat.

“Oh?”

He did not know why he was telling Beau this. Something about the darkness, the setting, the way they weren’t looking at each other. “Not even in the yard. But I was allowed to, because I took care of the garden. Sometimes Mr. Oz would even take me places, and that was nice. But I always felt bad for Sonny. It’s funny… I guess the option was always there, to just step outside, but it was impossible. Only because he told us not to.” Port pressed his thumbs into the soft bun in his hands, feeling it crush and tear. “Somehow it was unthinkable to just open the door and walk out.”

“But now?”

“It’s possible. It’s…” Port hesitated to say the word. Freedom. No pet should ever have the thought in their mind. “It’s not freedom, exactly. But it’s something like it.”

“No,” Beau said. “I think it’s certainly freedom. In fact, you’re more free than you realize.”

Port’s brow furrowed. He expected he might see some humor in Beau’s face, but he looked deathly serious. “How?”

“You’re free within your own mind.”

Port nearly rolled his eyes. He stopped just short, raising them above Beau’s head. The fabric covering on the ceiling was bubbling where it met the door, peeling away from the metal roof. 

“Do you disagree?”

“Um…”

“Like I said, you can speak your mind.”

“I don’t think that means anything,” Port said, unable to bite his tongue in the wake of permission. “Especially not to me.” 

“Why’s that?”

“My mind…” is deteriorating. “They took away my memories. They took away my free will. They took away… me. Or who me used to be.”

“You’re still you,” Beau said. “Regardless of whether or not you remember it, everything you’ve ever experienced has shaped you up to this point. It’s all formative.”

Port sighed.

“And it’s impossible to take away free will,” Beau continued. “How many times did you exhibit free will, just today?”

“I should be punished for it.”

“Should is subjective. And that’s besides the point, anyway.” 

“Is it?”

Beau’s head bobbed as he paused to take another sip from the cup he had been idly waving around. Port took the moment to have a drink himself, setting his burger on the greasy paper sitting on the center console. The cold Coke over his tongue was somewhat invigorating. 

“Have you heard of Epictetus?” Beau asked.

“Um, no.” 

“He was a Greek philosopher. Before he started teaching, he was a slave." The unspoken addendum hung in the air: Like you. "This is something he said…” Beau raised his finger like a wise sage. “We can’t choose our external circumstances, but we can always choose how we respond to them.” 

“There are always consequences,” Port said, unimpressed.

Beau put his finger down. “Sure. But you have the freedom to choose.”

“Is it really freedom if I’ll be punished for my choice?”

“What if you didn’t fear punishment?”

“Why shouldn’t I?”

“Because then you’d be free.” 

Port’s eyes narrowed.

Beau’s mouth lifted in a smile, maybe a little sheepishly. “What I’m saying is… for as long as you concern yourself with the external world, you’re restrained. Once you let go of that, you’re free. This is autarkeia. Self-sufficiency.” He swept his cup through the air, at the parking lot behind them and the bushes in front of them. The liquid inside splashed and collapsed into itself like a miniature wave. “Independence from the external.”

Port sat back against the cushioned seat, contemplating. “I’ve discovered this,” he realized. 

“You have?”

“Yes. After he died… I had no fear. I was numb. I didn’t care what would happen to me.” He pressed his thumb into the meat of his opposite palm. He brushed the side of his foot against his ankle. The burn on his thigh persisted under the bandages and the fabric of his jeans. “So even though I was locked in the facility… I was free.” He looked to see Beau’s reaction. “Is this what you’re saying?”

Beau’s expression was heavy with something. “Essentially,” he said.

A few hours ago, he'd been in the same state... up until he heard the coyote’s howl. “In the desert I was free,” Port admitted.

Beau tilted his head. “Yeah?”

Port twisted his hands in his lap. “I just… want everything to go back to the way it used to be. Before I made so many stupid mistakes.” Before all this, Sonny had said. 

Even as he spoke his wish aloud, he could not pinpoint when exactly that was supposed to be. Before the conversation with Sonny on the bed? Before he brought Sonny to the bathroom? Before he let Sonny be hurt? Before he told Sonny his pain wasn’t worth anything? Before he stood by and watched?

Maybe before Sonny arrived at all. Maybe before he aimed the gun at Klaus. Maybe before he turned the knife on Ginny. Maybe before he got involved with WRU. Maybe before… before… before.

Beau had been silent for some time, not eating or drinking— only lost in thought. His tongue pressed at the inside of his cheek. “I’m sure you already realize this is impossible.”

“Yes,” Port said.

“Wanting things that are out of our power to achieve is what restrains us. If you want something you can’t have, you can never be free.”

He was not supposed to be free. “It’s funny,” Port said. “In training, they would tell us something like that. That we weren’t supposed to want anymore.”

Beau smiled, a little sad, eyes crinkling. “I’m sorry they told you that. I doubt they had philosophical motivations.” He ran his hand down one of the dark braids falling over his shoulder, looping the wavy tail of it around his index finger. He stroked his thumb over the smooth hair over and over as he spoke. “But if you really did manage to do away with all of your wants, like they told you to, you would be free. Isn’t that ironic? They handed you the key to true freedom and didn’t even realize it.”

Port allowed his eyes to drift out the windshield, staring at the rustling bushes. Would Beau be saying the same thing in a world where he was locked away? He tried to imagine Beau as a pet, all docile, pretty eyes aimed to the floor. It was a strange image, but not difficult to picture. It felt illicit.

“I guess,” Port said. “But to tell you the truth, I think that’s all just in your head.”

“What’s inside my head is the only unquestionable fact of my existence.”

Port peered at him out of the corner of his eye. “Did Epic-teetus say that too?”

Beau’s teeth shone as he laughed. “No. I don’t know who said that. It’s the concept of subjectivism. Everything we experience, before it reaches our minds, is filtered through the cage of our bodies. Reality is only as we perceive it through our senses, and our senses can deceive us.”

The breeze sweeping through the leaves curved around the car and blew through the crack in the window, streaming across Port’s cheek. “I had this thought,” he said. “I don’t think I ever left the facility. I’m there now, hooked up to some apparatus, and they’re feeding me sensations through… through tubes, or electrodes, or vapor. To trick me into thinking this is all real.”

“Well, in theory, we could all be in a simulation right now.”

“Do you think we are?”

“I don’t think it’s worth losing sleep over.”

It was too late for that. Port’s eyes ran over Beau’s serious face, the crinkle under his eyes, the faint beginnings of lines forming around his nose and mouth. “Are you free?” Port asked.

Beau did not shy away from his gaze. “No.”

“Why not?”

Beau cracked a smile, wry. “I’m afraid my body is subject to everything that proves stronger than itself. My mind is still too attached. Despite what people say about desire being the root of all suffering, I think desire is intrinsic to being alive.”

Port could not help but grin in return, a little teasing. “Do you always speak in such fancy words?”

“Only when someone humors me like you do.” Beau winked. 

Port looked away, bashful. He grabbed his abandoned drink and took another sip. The ice was melting. Because the car was off, and the dashboard was dark, Port had no idea what time it was, nor how long it had been.

Beau’s voice cut through his idle thoughts. “You said you made mistakes.”

Port ran his finger up the straw of his cup. It was nearly empty by now. “Did I?”

“What are you regretting?”

“Uh…” What a loaded question. “Everything,” he said.

Beau was silent. Port shifted in his seat, and crossed his legs at the ankles, wincing as the fabric of his jeans shifted against his burns. “Sonny and I used to be real close,” he continued, compelled to give a satisfactory answer. “But I keep… doing… stupid things.”

“I see.”

“I love him,” Port admitted, perhaps unwisely. “And he thinks he loves me, but… not the real me. He doesn’t know the truth. And I’ve treated him terribly before.”

“A subjectivist would say there is no objective truth.”

Port could not withhold his sigh at further philosophical talk. “Well, if all I know is what’s in my head, then that’s the truth to me, and that’s what matters.”

Beau nodded slowly, eyes drifting to his lap. He spoke: “Except our own thoughts, there is nothing absolutely in our power.”

“Who said that?”

“Descartes. Let me ask you something: If you already believe he doesn’t love your true self anyway, what is there to lose from revealing it?”

Port stared at him.

“Are you afraid to shatter the facade?”

“The truth hurts,” Port said.

“Him, or you?”

Port stared some more. Beau stared back. Port gave up and looked back out the window, to the nearly starless sky, shaking his head. “I can never be free. In my head, or not. I’m too scared of consequence.”

“Most of us are. Listen… you don’t have the power to undo the past. You know that. All you can do is try to be better.”

“He wants to forgive me.”

“Then let him forgive you.”

“I don’t deserve it.”

“That’s subjective.”

Port let his skull press against the cushioned headrest, losing the energy to debate. He closed his eyes. 

“Don’t you think it helps to talk things out?” Beau asked.

Port thought back to all the long conversations he used to have with Sonny. He could never get enough of them, after so long spent alone or in poor company. They’d happen anywhere— in the dead of night, inches from each others faces, or during the day, on opposite ends of the couch. Yelled across the house when Mr. Oz was at work and spoken through open windows while Port knelt in the yard. They used to talk about anything and everything. Hell, even philosophy. When was the last time he’d had a good conversation like that?

“I do,” Port answered.

“You should talk to him,” said Beau. “Be honest. You might be surprised.” 

 * * * * *

Port slipped through the front door and shut it behind him as quietly as he could manage. He bolted the lock with a faint click, allowing the breath to release from his lungs. The lack of sleep had caught up to him, now. He was ready to pass out. He turned around, aiming for his bedroom.

“Hi,” Rida said.

Port flinched more violently than he even thought he was capable of, hands flying to grip in front of his chest. He could feel how wide his eyes had gone as they landed on her where she stood by the stove. A small metal pot was steaming.

“Sorry,” she said, though her voice was quite flat and her eyes were lidded. Her posture was lined with exhaustion.

Port was no longer tired at all, hopped back up on adrenaline. “I’m sorry,” he blurted, though he was practically whispering. “I’m really sorry.”

Rida blinked slowly. “For what?”

Oh, so she was one of those people who liked him to repeat what he had done wrong. “For— for leaving without permission,” he said, trying to resign himself to whatever his punishment would be. Don’t fear it, he told himself.

Rida rubbed at her eye with a fist. Port realized she did not have any of her dark makeup on, lips pale. “Porter…” she started, sounding almost exasperated. “You are a grown man. You can fuck off to Mexico, for all I care.”

Port stared as she picked up the wooden spoon laying on the counter and idly stirred whatever was in the pot.

“Sorry,” she amended. “That came out harsh. But my point still stands.”

“...Okay."

“Mhm,” she hummed, softly setting the spoon back down. Some unidentifiable liquid pooled beneath it— too dim to tell. “Sonny told me,” she said. Port's heart clenched at the bolt of betrayal sent through him, though Rida continued: “I woke up when the door opened, and you were gone when I went to check. Sonny said you went for a walk. Sorry if it was supposed to be a secret.”

In that case, he supposed Sonny didn’t have much choice in the matter. He wondered if Sonny had mentioned Beau— he feared for him to get in trouble. “Uh… it wasn’t, necessarily,” Port said, even though he had totally intended for it to be a secret. He needed to remember that Rida must be a light sleeper.

She seemed uninterested. “Do you want some golden milk?” she asked.

Of course… that must be what she was boiling. He used to make it for Mr. Oz sometimes. Once, he mentioned that his wife used to make it for him every night. Port never knew how to feel in those moments, and he felt weird every time he made it from that point on. The recipe must have belonged to her, whoever she was. That surely was not an easy association to let go of.

“Yes, please,” Port said.

He found himself at the table with her, each of them nursing a warm mug. He was tired again. A little raw. He did not think he was capable of crying anymore, as heavy as he felt. He considered this a good thing.

“I’m sorry for being here,” Port said.

Rida shook her head, looking into the milk.

“And I’m sorry about your father. I never said it.” The nausea was back, for a different reason. 

“Don’t,” she said quietly. “I hated him.”

Port was silent.

“Didn’t you?” she asked.

Sometimes. Not always. “Why would I?”

She fixed him with a weighty look. The lack of makeup made her look younger, almost cherubic. Her skin was smooth. What was the word that had come to mind before? Unmarred? He realized his own face may look the same, scars perceptible only under a scrutinizing eye.

“Maybe I did,” he said.

Rida might have smiled before she brought the mug to her lips, or maybe he just imagined it. “A little honesty,” she muttered, and took a drink.

Port wondered, for a moment, how it was possible for a man to hurt his own family. Then he remembered who he was himself, and his own mistakes. But Port had never laid a hand on anyone who did not deserve it. He had never used his teeth or a knife or a gun on anyone who did not deserve it.

There was surely a difference between him and Mr. Oz, wasn’t there? Only one of them had done what needed to be done. 

Even if he deserved to do it to himself, he would not. Maybe because he was too cowardly. Maybe because he wanted to do better.

Port was not like him. He would allow himself to live.

♤♢♧♡♧♢♤

required reading -> the works of epictetus (specifically book iv chapter i: of freedom)

i expect your reports by the end of the week

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