Gant
The days are blurring too quickly, my love.
We can’t leave until I’ve chosen a name for you. Apparently, they regulate baby names here.
I can ask for permission, though. Maybe they’ll approve it…
I keep thinking, your eyes are just like the baths. There are so many baths here, so many hot springs…
And the architecture. This place feels royal. Looks royal. Is royal.
It’s one of the oldest countries in the world. Of course, it has a long royal line. Or it did.
We saw the king’s royal, holy hand after all.
Still, with all the castles and ruins, I can squint and imagine we’re back in time.
What’s a name fit for my little prince?
I rip the letter in half. Then in quarters, eighths, then sixteens until I don’t know what the fuck comes next.
Loneliness. Sheer loneliness washes over me as the last shred of paper falls onto the hardwood. She’s gone. Her letters, now utterly worthless, are gone from my heart too.
I look around Bae’s high-rise a floor below mine and take in its clean contemporary lines, minimalist aesthetic, and glass walls that let in the city views. There are millions of people around me. Through the windows, some could theoretically see me, and yet I feel invisible in this glass box.
All those notifications pinging on my phone from Beaulieu’s lost sheep. All my father’s pestering messages bombarding me for updates. All those DM’s looking for clout and a fuck because they think Elle’s gone for good. Meaningless. All of that attention is utterly worthless unless it’s coming from Elle.
My mind’s whirring, my skin itching, crawling to get back to her, and yet everyone milling around the flat are necessary steps to reclaim my living doll. Steps to give my father what he wants because it’s imperative that I do. Steps to find answers to questions that have been prodding me ever since the accident.
Soft padding followed by footsteps alerts me to the hallway where Bae’s strolling in from the back bedroom with two beasts in tow.
His wolf-dog, Zoi, immediately flies over to my discarded coat on the couch. The one I’d taken off an hour ago after returning from the hospital. He snuggles his muzzle into it, seemingly revelling in the scent. It took Bae three good tries to get him off it when I first arrived for our training session. As I watch Zoi fall in love with the jammy-rose aroma coating it, something tells me I won’t be leaving with it.
Fuck’s sake. It’s cheaper Bae just buys the damn perfume. It’s clearly both of their favourites. If I weren’t here, I know Bae would shamelessly be huffing it, too.
“So?” I ask, facing him. Before I can catch his eye, a shadow on all fours darts past me, and the metallic rattle of the rolling cage tells me that he’s crawled back inside.
Bae shakes his head hopelessly, his elbow-length jet-black hair fluttering.
Fuck.
“Out,” I command, but those eyes of spring won’t look at me even as I kick the cage and dent the bars.
“That won’t work,” Bae says, dropping to a squat and pulling kibble from his pocket. Despite the heat in the flat, he’s covered from head to toe as usual, from his black turtleneck to his dark socks. “Come.” He extends his palm, and to my surprise, the creature crawls out, bending to lick up the pieces Bae drops to the floor.
I squeeze my eyes shut in irritation. “Why the hell is he still eating kibble?”
“Training takes time. We have to deprogram him.”
“I don’t have more time,” I snap, stepping over the mess with a clack, thanks to the house slippers Bae gives every guest. If only the scratchy sound of them dragging against the hardwood was enough to itch my brain and calm my impatience as I head for the kitchen. “Zedd! Where are the wings?”
I spot Zedd’s dirty blonde head bent over the island before the rest of him comes into view. Unlike Bae, he’s shirtless save for his apron. Only the lights above the island are on, bathing him in a warm golden glow as a soft-rock love-making melody drifts from speakers hidden in the walls.
When he turns to me, his normally stoic face is laced with a mild mania that only overtakes his features whenever he’s cooking. Between his oven mitts is a wire rack with two dozen crispy wings, all neatly aligned.
“Fresh from the air fryer. Look at how evenly they browned,” he says, searching my eyes for the same amount of enthusiasm and weird eroticism.
Unfortunately for him, my dick doesn’t get hard from eating, not food, at least. But I can’t deny that it smells delicious, even if the flavour is wrong.
“Why did you make a masala glaze? I told you he likes lemon pepper.”
“I made lemon pepper. I figured it couldn’t hurt to work on my masala, too. He may like it.”
“He doesn’t have a sophisticated palate. He likes five-for-five wings and corner shop beer,” I say, storming past the island loaded with coriander, chiles, cumin, and a whole heap of other richly coloured spices.
The harsh white light of the fridge nearly blinds me, thanks to Zedd’s moody lighting, as I reach for the six-pack I’d picked up on my way over. It’s the only other thing in the fridge besides water. Not that I’m surprised. Its emptiness mirrors the rest of Bae’s flat. I bring the cans to the dining table, the only furniture in the massive living room. Zedd had set it for one.
Just as I’d hoped, those light blue-grey eyes behind the cage’s bars find me once I pop a top, and a crisp sizzle escapes the can. Bae said he needed to be familiarised with his favourites again.
“Come,” I command pouring the piss water into a glass.
He scampers over in that uncanny way, almost like an ape. I guess it’s better than all fours.
“Sit,” I gesture to the chair I’d pulled out from the table, but he doesn’t budge.
“He’s not comfortable with the furniture yet,” Bae says quietly before taking a wing from Zedd, who’d followed me. “He wasn’t allowed to use any for two years. Or so I think.”
Irritated, I watch as Bae sticks the wing below the beast’s nose. He sniffs, already salivating at the offering, but he doesn’t follow it to the plate Bae slides it on. He just stares longingly from a safe distance with those big puppy dog eyes I want to stab out with the fucking fork we still haven’t got him to use.
“Maybe he prefers drums,” Zedd says with a shrug. “I told you I should make both.”
“He only ordered flats,” I grit, my eyes flying to Bae. “Why isn’t this working? We’ve been doing positive reinforcement for days now. I’ve been buying all the shit he loved.” I’d even abstained from my beloved tank therapy where he’d spin and spin as if I were stirring a soggy teabag. I call it tea time.
“It takes time — ”
“I don’t have time. I need him acting like a fucking human again even if it’s a degenerative one.” Of course, Bart would leave the hard shit to me. He broke him, and yet it’s my task to fix him. To make him normal enough to have a conversation. To get answers. “If positive reinforcement won’t work, then what about negative enforcement?”
“ — ” Bae starts.
I stoop to his level so that I can peer into his eyes. Those eyes of spring.
“Get in that fucking seat now,” I hiss. “Or we’ll have another tea party.”
He whimpers but doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak.
“…” Zedd trails, an unusual amount of concern in his tone. “Seriously, what the actual fuck has Bart done to him for two years?”
At the name, Jarett falls onto his ass before diving for the cage again. I beat him to it, shutting the door with my foot, and he crawls behind the couch instead.
‘I’m afraid I’ve broken him,’ Bart had said.
“I wasn’t there, was I?” I ask. But I can imagine, even if I can’t sympathise. Even if I wish I’d witnessed it.
Jarett had tortured my baby, his own baby. I wouldn’t give a damn if he acted like the dog my father treated him as for the rest of his pathetic life if it weren’t for her. I need him to get to her. To keep her.
Bart thinks Jarett has the answers to find my mother’s little prince. But I know he’s the answer to opening Elle’s eyes to the truth once and for all.
“He trained him like a dog.” My eyes snap to Bae. “So untrain him.”
“We’re making progress,” Bae says with far too much patience as he takes a masala wing.
Zedd watches him with wide, crazed eyes, waiting for his reaction as he bites into it with a crunch.
“He doesn’t soil himself any more,” Bae says between bites. “And at least he’s willing to leave the cage now. But I told you not to expect leaps, just baby steps. Bart deprived him of any human considerations for years. Days won’t do the trick. Even if we had weeks….” He trails before whistling.
Jarrett follows the command timidly, scampering over to us as Bae grabs a bowl from the table and sets it on the floor with a wing. He transfers the beer from the glass to the bowl, and I watch in disgust as Jarett laps it up, clearly more comfortable. But there’s a small tunnel of light as something other than fear and primal instinct overtakes his features. Something I’d been hoping for. Familiarity. A blast from the past.
“He remembers the beer,” I whisper, mostly to myself, before grabbing a wing from Zedd.
“Does it taste authentic?” Zedd asks, watching me intently. “Like the masala we had in India last winter?”
I pause my chewing and eye Zedd with just as much interest. “You’ve been obsessing over South Asian recipes lately.”
Zedd’s expression drops, and the Zaddy Zedd I’m more familiar with settles back into place. The one that’s so stony, he can’t emote anything more than indifference. “So?”
“So I find that very interesting,” I say, tossing the bones. “Though I’m not complaining.” Thanks to Zedd’s experimentations, I’d eaten a fuck ton of pineapple yesterday. Hopefully, Etienne’s experimentations with fruits and releases were right.
“It tastes authentic to me,” Bae says, giving Zedd the approval he can’t get from her outright. “You know, one of my chefs in Korea is from Kerala, too.”
I can see Zedd hyper-fixating on the last word, too.
There are no secrets in our group. Just respect for unspoken truths that are so fucking loud it’s insane that we pretend we don’t hear them. See them.
Zedd nods curtly, seemingly satisfied with Bae’s approval, as he slips into the seat Jarett wouldn’t. Bae motions for me to do the same as he picks up the dark green folder embossed with golden letters. It’s been sitting on the table since I entered the flat, and I’d ignored it, not wanting to rush the hope that’s been blooming in my chest since I arrived.
“Did you find the car?” I ask evenly. “The driver?”
The driver who killed my mother and nearly killed me and Elle, too.
He was driving a dark green, nearly black vintage car. Somewhere around the nineteen forties, that’s what Elle said. That’s precisely what I remember, too, but she remembered far more. It had a tall hood ornament that punctured her side in three spots. She said it had some sort of tail. A flowing dress, maybe? The Spirit of Ecstasy. Maybe…
I try to find the answer in Bae’s expression, but the minute his sombre, honey-coloured eyes land on me, I avert my own, my jaw ticking.
Just like our progress with Jarett, we aren’t any closer.
“Have your contact recheck it,” I say, heading for the door.
“You forgot your coat,” Zaddy Zedd says like a proper father. “It’s chilly outside.”
“Bae needs it more.” At Bae’s arched brow, I clarify. “You know, to jack off with later.”