Sugar, Secrets and Upheaval

Final Chapter - Mundane and Predictable Existence

I extended my hand to the person under the debris, my fingers finding hers in the dusty gloom. “You are safe now; come with me,” I said, my voice steady despite the tremors that ran through the set. A young woman, her face streaked with dirt and tears, stumbled out from the wreckage. She wrapped her arms around me, clinging tightly.“I… I knew you would come back,” she sobbed into my shoulder, her voice catching on cue.

“I always do,” I replied, my voice amplified by the boom mic hovering just out of frame.

“Cut!” the director yelled. The buzz of the lighting rigs powering down and the murmur of crew members filled the air.

The director rushed towards us from his canvas chair. Behind him, a swarm of make-up artists and costume assistants descended, ready to adjust, blot, and tidy. “It was gold, gold, gold!” he declared, shaking his head in an ecstatic disbelief, his eyes wide with triumph, his headset slightly askew.

“Thank you, sir, it would not be without you,” I replied with a smile, a faint warmth spreading through me at his effusive praise.

“So humble,” he chuckled, squeezing my shoulder with a firm grip before turning his attention back to the bustling crew. “A little more dust on the cheeks!” he called out, his voice sharp and devoid of its theatricality. He clapped his hands together, the sound echoing across the set. “I can see her highlighter all the way from here. This was an explosion, not a fashion highway!”

The swarming make-up artists and costume department quickly busied themselves with my co-star, powder puffs, and fabric swatches already in motion. Meanwhile, a production assistant appeared by my side, offering a chilled water bottle with a straw.

Gods, I did not miss doing my own stunts; my back is aching.

“Replace the markers!” the director’s voice boomed across the set. “One more shot, then we wrap this exterior scene!”

I watched the flurry around my co-star, then glanced at the scattered markers being replaced on the set floor — small, unassuming Xs and Ts.

The assistant director consulted her clipboard. “Five minutes to reset!” she called out, her voice cutting through the rising chatter. Technicians moved swiftly, adjusting a precarious-looking pile of ‘debris’ and sweeping away the fake dust. A gaffer adjusted a massive light dome overhead, angling it to catch the ‘sunlight’ for our final shot.

My gaze drifted to the edge of the soundstage, past the chaos of cables and equipment. The wall of the stage was a vast greenscreen. It was a world I had once been desperate to inhabit, a place where I could lose myself in someone else’s story. Now, the stories I found most compelling were the ones lived off-screen, in the quiet moments after the cameras stopped rolling.

“Raphael, places!” the A.D. announced, pulling me back to the present. I straightened, adjusting the dust-stained fabric of my costume. One more shot. One more act of controlled pretense. Then, I could go home.

“Action!”

The world snapped back into focus. I moved, hitting my markers, the dialogue flowing. The actress, now reset and re-dusted, delivered her lines, her eyes wide with terror. I pulled her to safety, shielding her as another explosion rattled the set.

It was a familiar dance, a performance honed over years, but now, it felt different. There was no desperate hunger for acclaim, no gnawing anxiety about failure. Just the focused execution of a craft I had chosen to re-engage with, on my own terms.

“And… cut! That’s a wrap on the exterior scene!” the director’s voice boomed, a note of pure exhilaration in his tone. A collective cheer went up from the crew.

I offered a genuine smile to my co-star. “Well done,” I said, and she returned it.

“Raphael, you’re joining us for drinks, right?” a gaffer called out, wiping sweat from his brow. “We’re heading to that pub down by the docks.”

A year ago, I would have leapt at the invitation, eager for the camaraderie.

“Thank you, but I think I’ll head home,” I replied quickly. The gaffer’s face fell slightly, but he nodded. “Long day, I get it. See you tomorrow, then!”

I offered another smile, a more definitive one this time, and began to walk away. The hum of the disconnecting equipment faded behind me as I made my way to my trailer. My back still throbbed, but the thought of the quiet drive back to the house, to the serene solitude of our house, and to Levi, was a far more compelling prospect than any pub gathering.

The cameras were off. The act was over. And my real life was waiting.

…

The elevator chimed softly, opening directly into the penthouse living area. The immediate quiet was broken by a drawn-out groan.

“Levi?” I called out, my brow furrowing at the sound. He was draped over the sectional sofa, his face buried dramatically in a cushion. Around him, the minimalist space of the penthouse was jarringly full. Bouquets of exotic flowers, their vibrant colors, were arranged on every surface. Gift boxes of various sizes, some with elaborate ribbons, others gleaming with designer logos, were stacked haphazardly on the glass coffee table and even on the floor beside him. It looked less like a home and more like a high-end botanical garden that had just received a very enthusiastic, very expensive delivery.

“A profound inconvenience,” he mumbled into the cushion. “They simply will not cease.”

“What is all of this, Levi?” I asked, my voice laced with bewilderment as I surveyed the explosion of boxes, handwritten notes, and vibrant bouquets that had overtaken our penthouse.

“It is my birthday,” he mumbled, his voice a low groan, still muffled by the cushion.

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I rushed to him, my voice filled with immediate contrition. “What the hell? It was your birthday? I am so incredibly sorry I forgot, Levi!”

“I forgot about it, too,” he mumbled back, his voice still muffled by the cushion, clearly unperturbed by my oversight. “Ugh, they are throwing a gala at my foundation for my birthday celebration.”

While I was out there on a movie set, contemplating the meaning of my life and career, he was probably calculating the most efficient way to dispose of hundreds of bouquets and avoid a party thrown in his honor.

I, who just spent a year dealing with his brand of chaos, completely missed something so mundane as his birthday.

It’s perfectly us, isn’t it?

“Gods, Levi… How do you even forget about your own birthday?” I asked, still reeling from the revelation as I knelt beside the sofa.

“It is not even my own birthday; it is fake.”

“How can your birthday not be your birthday?” I pressed, utterly perplexed.

“Noble progeny cannot possess a random day of birth; their days are chosen,” he explained. “There are three specific days designated for each month: the fifth, the fifteenth, and the twenty-fifth. I do not, in fact, know my actual day of birth.”

“Don’t you think you’re a little too late to explain all that to me?”

“Who cares, truly? It is merely a day,” he groaned into the pillows. “I do not. Neither does anyone else. However, I am compelled to attend the foundation’s gathering, to portray the ‘Saint’ persona, and accept all of this meaningless refuse from individuals who do not even comprehend my true nature.” His face remained buried, but he gestured dismissively at the towering stacks of gift boxes and bouquets with one languid hand.

He plays his part, I play mine.

“Don’t worry, Levi, we will fix you up with lots and lots of sugar. Then I will feign a headache so we can leave early,” I said, attempting to lighten his mood.

“Gratitude,” he mumbled, raising his head from the sofa cushion. His deep blue eyes, though still tired, now held a glint of his usual dry wit. “I am thirty-two now. I am old, and I believe I am about to experience another mid-life crisis, or what you might term, from sheer boredom.” He pushed himself into a sitting position, the vibrant bouquets and gift boxes surrounding him like evidence of a crime.

Most people have their first one well into their forties, not a mere year after their last, world-ending one.

“How can you possibly call yourself old? You don’t even have a deep wrinkle at your eyes,” I said, sitting on the couch next to him, reaching out to touch his jawline. “But… about that boredom, do you have any ideas how to alleviate it?”

“Well, the clinical trials for the Aethelorchis Hereditas opioids are concluded, which signifies my most substantial project is officially complete,” he stated, his voice now entirely devoid of its earlier groaning. “I suppose I will be compelled to seek out the President and entreat him to provide me with a sufficiently engaging conundrum.”

“What, are you going to plan a coup again? A bit of high treason?” I asked, a laugh escaping me.

He slowly tapped his fingers on his abdomen, his gaze distant, as if genuinely considering the logistics. No. I was joking! I didn’t mean it!

“The President is performing an acceptable job, so no, a coup would not be efficacious; I would likely be decapitated before I could even commence,” he said, his voice calm, utterly devoid of irony.

“There are so many things you said that make anybody faint on the spot, Levi. Lay down your terrorism for a while, yes? Wait until at least I finish my movie.”

He looked at me, his eyes holding respect. “But my Pulla does not faint, does he?”

Yeah. How can I? It’s just Levi being Levi, casually discussing hypothetical treason while surrounded by birthday bouquets. My life will forever be a delicate balance of the mundane and the absurd with him.

“You’ve shown me things that would make most people spontaneously combust, Levi. A little high treason barely registers anymore,” I said, a dry laugh escaping me.

He chuckled. “I merely observed the latent potential and provided it with a modicum of growth hormone,” he said, shrugging subtly.

Before him, my life was… contained. Predictable. He introduced the chaos, the risk, the scale of a world beyond my comfortable stage. And now, I can look at ‘high treason’ and merely roll my eyes.

“Well, if I’m the enhanced result, I’d say your ‘modicum’ was rather potent. What’s next, a ‘modicum’ of world peace?” I asked, a wry smile playing on my lips.

“Peace is boring,” he said, his expression serious as he settled deeper into the sofa.

“Yeah, yeah, we’re practically drowning in peace,” I retorted, rolling my eyes good-naturedly.

“I have made Ascaria excessively liberal; even terrorist organizations do not deem it worthy of targeting us,” he declared with a hint of chagrin, as if the lack of impending threats was a personal failing on his part.

“Don’t worry, I’m sure someone, somewhere, is cooking up a sufficiently complex problem for you. The world always delivers.”

“I hope,” he replied, his eyes gleaming with a childlike anticipation. “Can you imagine, if a terrorist cell decided to strike a deal with me?” he mused, letting out a tuneless whistle. “Ascaria’s populace should be thoroughly thrilled I am not an anarchist.”

I, who once performed for cameras, now find myself living with a man who could easily orchestrate geopolitical shifts, all while pouting about his unwanted birthday gifts.

“Yes, Levi, the collective sigh of relief from Ascaria’s citizens is almost deafening, knowing you prefer pharmaceuticals to global anarchy,” I said, a dry chuckle escaping me.

“Dear,” he murmured, his deep blue eyes softening as he leaned in and placed his lips gently onto mine in a tender kiss. “All this discourse about treason, coups, terrorism… They are diverting, certainly, but I am content that I chose to disengage from governmental endeavors. I was offered a position as the next mayoral candidate for the capital, but I declined, since… it would bore me, and necessitate a political stance.” He paused, his gaze drifting to the birthday bouquets. “I suppose what I intended to convey was, even if I experience a degree of ennui, I am nonetheless pleased that I selected this rather mundane and predictable existence.”

I know his boredom will inevitably creep back in, leading him to seek new, probably terrifying, forms of engagement, but, for now, in this moment, he finds contentment in what we have.

“I suppose even world-class masterminds need a little domesticity to ground them,” I said, a soft smile on my lips.

“They certainly do.”

I wished this moment, our quiet, boring, but ultimately peaceful present, could last forever.

A delicate, absurd, and extraordinary balance of mundane domesticity and the ever-present potential for world-altering chaos.

As Levi’s hand rested on my knee, I understood that this chosen, unpredictable peace was the grandest adventure of all.