19. Lazarus
LAZARUS
It’s late at night, or very early in the morning, depending on how you want to look at it, and Lazarus is staring at his ceiling, thinking. He’s been able to do little else recently.
The second Trial is in three weeks, and his focus is split between that and all of his shortcomings in the first Trial.
Scared for the future, haunted by the past. How he feels about the present, he doesn’t know. He doesn’t really have time to acknowledge it.
His whole cohort made it past the first Trial, which is impressive. He knows that. They’re one of two groups that made it in their entirety. But they nearly didn’t. He almost failed Zeno: the only person who has been kind to him since… he can’t remember when.
Part of him is afraid that he did it on purpose. That he left Zeno for last because he wanted him to be knocked out of the Trials.
He didn’t make the decision actively, but what if he did it subconsciously? What if he is so dishonorable that he does horrible things without even thinking about it?
When Zeno made it out, Lazarus didn’t feel relief. Just guilt that won’t wash away no matter how hard he tries.
Lazarus wishes Zeno were less kind and more calculating. Wishes Kallias were more desperate for power. Wishes Kleia were more cruel.
Wishes one of them would finally kill him and take his place so he wouldn’t have to live like this anymore. So he wouldn’t have to stress, stress, stress.
He wants to be dead or he wants to be done. But there are still two months before he knows who the Educator will be, and he has too little courage to end his own life, so he’s stuck halfway through Er’s journey with no ticket out.
Sleep should be a respite, but as his eyes start to droop shut, he hears a familiar, blaring voice.
“Auxiliaries. Welcome to the first Trial.”
“What are you doing in my seat?” Lazarus asks, glaring at Alexander.
“Didn’t know that we were glued to our usual desks.”
Kallias watches them from beside Alexander with thinly veiled interest.
Ah, so that’s why. These two want to play boyfriends in class, and Lazarus’ ideal seat—just far enough from the board to have a complete view, but not so far that he can’t see—is going to fall victim.
“Most people have the decency to stick to the one they’ve been picking for the past two months,” Lazarus mumbles with more annoyance than heat behind his words. He’s too tired to fight right now.
Alexander bites his lip, unexpectedly apologetic. “Look, man, I’ll move if you really want me to.”
“It’s fine, whatever.”
Alexander’s grin is the only warning Lazarus gets before he stands and yanks him into a weird, brief bro-hug.
“Thank you!” he exclaims. It’s a lot of enthusiasm for eight in the morning; Lazarus isn’t sure how Kallias puts up with it.
When Alexander pulls back, his eyes widen at such a close-up view of Lazarus’ face. “Whoa, dude, are you okay?” he asks, quieter.
“Yes. Why wouldn’t I be?”
Alexander gives him a patronizing smile. “No reason. Just… take it easy, bud.”
‘Bud’? Seriously?
Lazarus can’t dignify that with a response.
He just walks away, watching them from the corner of his eye.
When Alexander sits down, he taps on his desk, and Kallias covers his mouth like he’s trying to hide a smile.
What that means, Lazarus has no idea, but he absolutely refuses to let it freak him out—at least, for now.
He takes the seat next to Zeno, trying not to begrudge the fact that it’s too close to the front.
Guardian Anaximander enters not a moment later, and Lazarus prepares himself to zone out and let History of the Republic pass him by.
But every time he starts to spiral into comfortingly familiar doubt and oblivion, Zeno turns in his seat to make a silly face at Alexander or whispers something to Eudoxos, and he’s dragged back to the unpleasant present.
He’s rolled his eyes fifty-eight times—yes, he’s keeping count—when a small object taps him on the head and falls to the floor behind him.
He turns around to check what it is, and is met with the sight of Alexander, who’s clearly trying to hold back a laugh, and Kallias, who’s incessantly tapping at his desk.
Lazarus glares at them both and then looks down to see a paper airplane. Before he can snatch it up, Zeno takes it and mouths Sorry, then smiles at Alexander over his shoulder and shakes his head.
Plato and his prophecies, these people are so stupid they’re going to kill him.
Maybe he’ll just let them.
And there he goes again, musing on his own death. It can’t be healthy. But he feels like Icarus, plummeting at speed toward the sea. At some point, he’s going to reach the waves and his body will shatter, but he has no idea when. And he’d rather it be now than keep fretfully wondering.
Ten minutes later, he hears the rustling of more paper, this time a note being slid to him on the desk. He picks it up to pass it back to Alexander, but before he can, he notices his own name on it.
I’m always here for you, man; we’re friends. And sorry about the stupid boys back there. They mean well.
Lazarus isn’t sure what the function of the note is. He looks to Zeno for a clue and receives a wink. He doesn’t know how to respond, so he settles for folding up Zeno’s note and putting it gently in his bag. He can tell that Zeno notices.