Atrox Veritas

Summary: Drunk conversations at 3AM sometimes evolve into deep, philosophical and personal discussions.

Content warning for: underaged drinking (depending on where you live), death mention, some swearing.

The Story
“The uni students were partying after the labs today,” Airmid pulled out a flask from their bag. “And they temporarily forgot that I was sixteen.”

“You snuck alcohol into the school?”

“Well, you look like you need it.”

“You snuck alcohol in?”

“Shut it, are you trying to get me suspended?” Airmid’s eyes darted around. “I’m doing you a favour.”

~*~

The school library had a twenty-four hour policy on Fridays. Students rushing to finish assignments or to escape the general noisiness of the dorms would find refugee there. Bastion Fanfarinet had all intents to use this opportunity to catch up on unfinished essays, and at 3AM, was still up perfecting them.

But apparently, Airmid Valerian had entered this sacred place with the spoils of a party, stormed up to Bastion’s table, and told him he looked ‘half-dead, like a zombie’.

~*~

“You’re trying to get yourself suspended,” Bas retorted. “Don’t advertise the fact you have drinks in the library, out of all places.”

Airmid looked sour. There were bags under their eyes and a perpetual sulk on their face. Bastion bet that he probably looked the same way.

So Bastion sighed and gathered up his books. Airmid’s offer was tempting, and even underaged, he did feel deserve both a drink and a break. He followed the physician outside, and immediately regretted his decision not to bring a coat to the library.

“Isn’t your liege throwing a party tonight? Why were you still stuck in the library?” Airmid asked, pouring the drink into Bastion’s empty drink bottle.

“Turnus is an asshat. I would much rather avoid him at all costs,” Bastion rolled his eyes. “It’s 3AM, Airmid, why are you still awake?”

The physician shrugged. “I could ask you the same thing. But if you wanted a proper answer, I messed with my circadian rhythm by watching too much Lang’s Grey Book Anatomy. Right now, I literally cannot sleep.”

The night was dead at 3AM in the morning. Outside the library, you could see the dorms. A few yellow lights still flickered, the sign of students doing late-night studying. Other lights were pulsing in different colours – a party, no doubt.

The physician swung themselves over onto a brick wall, and sat precariously on the edge. Bastion, highly nerved out by heights, simply stood a metre’s distance away.

“Never have I ever kissed a girl,” the physician announced and raised their flask. A round of Never Have I Ever was always a good conversational starter.

Bas took a swing. “Never have I ever intentionally punched a person in the face.”

Swing. “I am going to get so hungover,” Airmid wiped the edge of their mouth with their sleeve. “Remember, it’s not the alcohol that gets you drunk. It’s the aldehyde.”

“Your logic is ridiculous,” Bastion took another swing. At this point, what was the harm? Tomorrow would be Saturday. He planned to take the day off. “It’s not guns that kill people, it’s organ damage and blood loss,” he responded in jest.

“You’re mocking me,” Airmid said stiffly.

As if the physician was egging him on with that comment, Bastion threw in another remark, “it’s not the institutionalised prejudice that hurts people, it’s the shitheads that get elected as a result.”

“At this rate you’re drinking, you’re the shithead.”

“Talk to yourself, Doctor Physician.”

“I do talk to myself. It’s called philosophy.”

To Airmid, philosophy was bullshit. A complete and utter distraction from reality. But equipping oneself with philosophy was like equipping oneself with an arsenal of logical language to sound smart and convincing.

Just as a politician would.

“Your reasoning is so incredibly fallacious,” Bastion said. “It’s absolutely erroneous for you to ignore all the nuances of–“

“Wow, you sound like one of my Tall Tales essays that I bullshit at the last minute!” Airmid simpered, and covered their mouth with their inner elbow.

He shot them a quizzical look. “In that case, how do you philosophise?”

“With a lot more grace,” they responded sagely. “And logic. And dignity. With scientific evidence, error bars and an acceptance of the probability that I may be completely off the mark. I call it science.”

Science. Airmid talked about science in the same way Bastion saw young men talk about their lovers. He frowned in envy. Perhaps life would be more tolerable if he had something – a cause, maybe, or a movement – that he held passion for in the same way.

“Yes, but philosophers talk. Don’t scientists do?”

“Politicians talk and activists do,” they quipped back.

Without destiny, Bastion seemed no longer like an Ambassador Fanfarinet, but simply a guy from a political family. Likewise, Airmid was less of Death’s physician, but rather a science-enthusiast in an accelerated medical programme. In essence, the identity and purpose they had spent their whole lives building up to had been erased.

Bastion didn’t know whether he wanted to thank Raven Queen or curse her for erasing destiny. Thank her for removing the obligation to be the kind of man he didn’t want to be. Curse her for leaving him with an unstable future and emotional state.

Meanwhile, Airmid seemed to appreciate that loss with ardour and a grin.

He envied them. Aside from their story’s end, Airmid’s destiny was actually decent, and promised a permanent job and future.

There was no such luck with himself.

Without his reply to continue the conversation, the two both fell silent. The only sound was Airmid drinking.

The physician was first to break the silence. “Do you ever think… some people just deserve to die?”

“I do,” Bastion confessed at the odd, sudden question. “My uncle did.”

If Airmid caught the double meaning of “I do”, they didn’t show it. Maybe out of respect. Maybe out of discomfort. Maybe they were too drunk to care. “Well, I certainly don’t mind the previous physician kicking the bucket.”

He looked at them, incredulous. “But you don’t know what the previous physician was like.”

“I do. I dug around for more information,” they glanced away. “I thought my line of physicians would have been brilliant, or something. Incredible, clever, medical professionals. But–”

“They weren’t?”

“Godfather told me power got hold of my predecessor, and he thought he deserved everything. Fame, money, women.”

Bastion didn’t like the sound of the predecessor.

“There was a huge court case. A scandal. If I read the file correctly, it was with one of the previous Odette’s swan maidens. He got away scot-free.”

“That asshole!” Bastion slammed his hand down. “He didn’t even pay for childcare, did he?” Poor swan maiden. Bas wondered how she was doing now. He hoped she was better. He hoped she got her revenge.

The physician shook their head. “It’s surprising how great a lawyer you can hire if you have the money and prestige.”

“Airmid, you know I can't stand guys like that. Those who just waltz in and think they can just… take whatever they want,” Bastion’s voice was high-pressured now, tense. “My uncle was that sort of man. The court ladies still have stories about him. It’s terrifying.”

“I see we both used to inherit the destiny of asshats, then,” Airmid distastefully raised their eyebrows, and coughed. “Surely… Fanfarinet, it can’t be the not-getting-the-girl part that bothers you about that destiny, is it?”

“Is that the part that bothers you, Doctor Physician?”

“Not at all. Never once given that aspect much of a thought.”

“So what does bother you?” he asked.

“The same thing that bothers you,” the physician attempted to take another swing, but looked visibly disappointed at the empty flask. “Not the not-getting-the-girl element, not the thing when people treating you less-than-amicably.”

“What? The fact I don’t want to be a manipulative asshole? Who takes advantage of every naive, sheltered person he meets?”

“And there is it. Precisely. You’ve confessed it yourself,” Airmid leaned back. “I would have to agree, Bastion. I don’t want to be a nepotistic conman, do I?”

He arched an eyebrow. Technical words were getting harder to comprehend when your brain was getting fuzzier. “A nepotistic conman?”

“The original physician was simply skidding on his godfather’s skill, wasn’t he? Without exerting any effort into the true art of medicine.”

Bastion shook his head. “You’re not making sense.”

“You’re not either.”

“You’re going to forget this conversation in the morning.”

“Ha. So will you.” Airmid checked the flask again to see if it was truly empty. With a contemplative found, they added, “I should have brought a water bottle. It helps to facilitate your liver’s detoxification”

The physician drank fast. Meanwhile, Bastion still had half-way to go. He wondered if the speed has something to do with the way he was raised. In France, drinking wasn’t seen as a thing for parties and celebrations, and few would drink to get drunk. A glass of wine on the dinner table was as normal as sipping water.

And then, he wondered when he would stop comparing himself to Airmid.

Obviously, he was envious of them. Envious that this young physician had their life in control, that they had a strong idea of their own future. And frustrated that he might have such a stable future – or even a future to begin with.

“I don’t understand you.”

“Huh?” the physician blinked.

“At the beginning of the year, you were jumpy and nervous. You spoke like you were vomiting up a thesaurus. What changed?”

Airmid lowered the flask, and silently egged Bastion on to speak.

“You talk back to everyone. You pose with middle fingers up in every second social media image you post.”

“That was one time.”

“Hyperbole,” Bastion leaned back, and suddenly felt a sharp pain at the edge of his eyes. “I still want to hear a proper answer, you know.”

There was a break in time as Airmid focused their eyebrows together to work out how to respond. “You get confidence. You learn you don’t have to accommodate for other people. You–“ they paused, and turned to the ambassador. “Bastion, you’re crying.”

He choked back a reply. “I’m not crying.”

“You are visibly crying and visibly denying that truth.”

The crying wasn’t loud by all means, but in the phone torchlight, it was obvious by the tear marks across his cheeks.

“I just want this to end, you know?” he turned away. Things like this: talking about emotions was far too difficult face-to-face. “I hate this – whatever’s happening right now.” He hated being fearful of an unstable future, hated the fact that he didn’t even have the comfort of destiny, hated–

“Things get better.”

A forlorn sigh fell from his mouth. “I want things to get better now.”

“Don’t we all?”

It was four in the morning now. Night was falling from its apex. The trees were surrounded with a turquoise glow, signalling the early bird fairies rising. Soft hums of life and nature stirred.

The physician sighed, and let their words ring out to the cool air once more. “Don’t we all.”