first: he is not giving sebastien the vial. he took an oath, primum non nocere, and while he doesnโt believe in apollo, or asclepius or hygieia or any of those other gods he pledged covenant to that final night before his graduation, with a mouthful of wine and latin whispered in unison, the brush of a dozen hands pacing circles under the starsโ he does believe in intention. in choosing who you are to be, and moving through the world as that person, no matter how difficult it may become.ย
itโs not the first time heโs withheld a balm, and it wonโt be the lastโ how strange, the part of caring that comes with saying no. saying, some pains are good for you. some pains leave you better off.ย
second: he is not letting sebastien on that ice. primum non nocere, indeedโ he has the itching certainty that to stand by and let him waltz to his death would leave the surgeon somehow as culpable for the loss as if he had slid the knife in himself. or, more likely, knowing what is out there: crushed the manโs trachea between his own beastly teeth.ย
heโd like to believe this further proof of his moral integrity, but he knows there are others with similarly dangerous plans for their nightโ and he is not on their doorsteps now, is he? is he even bothering to intercede, does he even feel bad? no. non, pas du tout. patently, itโs obvious: his morals play favorites, and sylvainโ hopeless thing, from the ache in his eyes and down to the small bones of his earsโ has somehow wedged his way into the doctorโs good graces, without either of them noticing anything afoot.ย
a realisation to examine later, surely; now, he just clenches his jaw, sighs. looks at the man like a problem to be solved. a puzzle with an answer at the end of it, a thing to be cracked open. what will stop you, sebastien? what do you want more than anything else?
and then, thirdly, lastly: a circling. step back until you hit a wall; retreat until it clicks into place. sylvain is tantalus, and casimir holds the one vial aboard that may aleviate his very specific brand of suffering. he is not giving sylvain the laudanum, not tonight, not ever. but sebastien doesnโt know that. sebastien doesnโt know him. doesnโt know what he would and wouldnโt do, to get what he wants. doesnโt know what he wants at all.
he makes a small, displeased face at the way the other man half-collapses without casimir to hold him up. the surgeonโs name expelled like a sigh. further proof of the wreck of his stateโ further proof he has no business leaving the ship at all. โperhaps youโre right, sylvain. surely weโve abandoned the realm of the conventional by now, this far into the abyss. it would pure cruelty to prolong your suffering, knowing the key to your relief is so close at hand.โย as if the words themselves have conjured it, he brings the vial out from his pocket. holds it to the light between them, just out of reach of the other man. just beyond the grasp of that hungry, hungry gaze.ย
โi canโt give you the entire vial without the loss being noted, but i wonโt leave you high and dry either. tell you whatโฆโ pockets the drugs again and steps further away, back towards the door now. like tempting a stray cat out of a barrel.ย โcome with me to my quarters, and let me administer the laudanum myself. iโll be able to monitor you in peace there, in case anything goes awry.ย and once youโve settled, youโll be free to go on your merry way, off into the night. dโaccord?โ
ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย โโโ
He doesnโt know what it is that surprises him, really, about the surgeonโs quarters. It seemed as if the entrance happened in an instant, a knife-flick, rather than the pull of a door. His sense of time is warped, either way; wrapped, too ย ย ย sleeping inside things that passed and things that never will. He tries to pare it down: is it the size of the room? The fact that itโs more barebones, more stripped of varnish and odds, varnish and ends? All that regalia they associated with Toussaint, up in Hotel Dieu. All the souvenirs of someone who can decide what to save. Decide what to keep.
Bastien blinks, and their eyelids start hurting. Yes, they knew itโd happen, the pinches inside soft tissue. Knew it shouldnโt be much of a start at all. They used to drip milk and water from a cloth, when Thien went through this; boiled water, cooled down inside the cusp of their hands. Thien would say, I feel like Iโm either going blind, or like I should. Like Iโd rather. Bastien wouldnโt say anything at all. Would say, hush, maybe, would weave in different subjects, different spotlights to stun the pain. But thereโs no stunning to pain, not this kind. He knows that now. Wonders if it made Thien feel weak, the fact that he even tried to move him out of it. A center that can never budge. A center that can never turn, only grow.
The apprentice he was, the diptych of obedience and airs, would care if Toussaint noticed. If he looked at their eyes at all, and took stock of the red rim around them, the almost-tears. Would be irked beyond measure that someone would accuse him of crying.
But there it is. And what else to accuse? From Toussaintโs vantage, the grand vesta opening on all this burnt land, Bastien is blameless. No guile, save for the weakness. Of him, on him. For Toussaint, there never was a difference.
He shudders when the door closes. The current nips at their limbs, and without even thinking, muscle drawn to what is safest, they gravitate towards the pipes. Knows where they are, because this room, much like the best of them, mirrors Aylaโs cabin. The cabin lent to him. Fuck, he needs to go back for Ayla. Bon sang, get on with it. I have to go and see what theyโre talking about, down there. Have to go and be with them. Do you know how long Iโve been waiting for a chance to make a headaway of it, docteur? To find that island again, and look inside it? Wear it all inside out? Do you know? Anything, anything at all?
The actorโs palms stick to the wall, desperate to capture the heat. Their back half collides, half curls over it, ribs bunched by the cornice. Their chin drops into their chest. It is not, really, as if they had much power to begin with, back when Toussaint cornered them in the sick bay. But now, in this bedroom, this consecrated shrine, all the balances upend. He loses even the little power he had; the bargaining chips, the common ground, the hunting ground. Power? Need strips you of itย ย ย ย ย ย that is what Cedric had kept on trying to teach him, and Bastien refused, in some perverse, pervasive acceptance of their hunger, to accept at face value.
โ Well? Will you apply your cure, then? โ He speaks softly to the surgeon. Itโd be a mistake to think it a softness of its own. His tone drops, droops. A lulling pendulum in the cave of their throat. Sebastien can hardly muster more; flesh betrays, where before they had so often betrayed it. Wants to say, get on with it, I have a whole conspiracy to catch up with, and theyโre messy businesses to be late to. Wants to say, who the fuck hurt you, Toussaint, and why did you never touch me? Wants to say, not underneath, but at the top of the pile, the quickest blanket to grab, will you let me sleep here? I cannot bear to sleep in that cabin alone. There are nights where I prefer it. Those are the worst nights. Those are the nights that scare me. Please, Iโll be goodโjust, let me? Iโll take the floor. Wants to say, well, ask, where exactly does need stop? How much can need amass, amend? Itโs awful, that he thought he loved Cedric, the troupe, life, with an infinite spirit. He understands, now, bunched in the corner of this hard manโs chamber, that there is only one thing to be spoken of in infinities.
And poppy is the son of it.
From slumping, his body boils into something else. His body understands the threat of this better: that it might not happen, that Casimir might not follow on his word. Whatโs a word kept to a wraith? Whatโs a word kept to voiceless things? No. No, anything, but I must have the vial.
With a muffled scream, the actor throw up their arms. This dithering, this stallingโand what for? Casimir has no need of anything he might give. In their gesture, the arms convulse, a tension that springs rather than streams through. And the, well, the actor just turns inside the corner. With their hand is still on the wall, they push themself forward, straighter up, closer into his space. For all the good it does. Oh, le rรฉveil. They hiss the words, scales-caked tidings.
โ I know you think I was set to betray you, Docteur. I know you think I must be punished for it. Bon Dieu, perhaps you think I must be punished for a lot of things. But if thereโs anything left of mercy inside you, youโll string me on the rack later. Tomorrow. Do whatever you want. Whenโs the last time you had a shot at it? A living thing entrusted to your hand, and not a dead one? Je le jure, Toussaint, you can cut my whole body open and throw it into the water. Hack at the liver, the twirling eye nerves. Anything. Merde, anything. Just. Please. Give. Me. The. Dose. โ