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Chapter Text

The night fell silent that evening.

She witnessed something so shocking and atrocious that she lost her words. Usually, she projected her diaphanous rays on things and beings, she illuminated the streets, made wet pavements sparkle after a rain, passed through windows to spread over the sleepers in their beds. She watched over the world by constellating her sky with stars but that evening, she remained silent, choosing to follow the horrible facts and words of which she was unfortunately a witness. Thus, that evening, that evening which she would have preferred to forget, the rays were dull and cold, the streets dark, the cobblestones viscous and no sleeper had a peaceful sleep.

The Moscow Central Clinical Hospital lay tall, stocky and gloomy in the darkness. The interior of the building was spitting a white light through the windows, giving this concrete monster an undead glow. The trees around the building were sharp, dry and covered with snow, this same snow mixed with mud, trampled and stamped all around the entrance of the medical center.

A lady in her early forties was sitting in the reception hall, devouring and enjoying each page of the novel that she had already started well, the work in question being the classic of literature 'Fifty Shades of Grey'. With flushed cheeks, she turned the pages where her lustful and eager eyes passed before the torrid adventures of Anastasia Steele and her very rich Apollo. Around her, interns, doctors, surgeons and members of the administration wandered, sometimes in an emergency, sometimes not. She was absorbed in her book, the heart beating, the feverish hands and the wet panties.

She only looked up from the pages when a teeming gathering composed of medical bodies and relatives of the patient took him, who was convulsing and spitting, past in a rapid manner while pulling the stretcher where he was resting until the first available operating room. The woman in the reception room followed them with her eyes through plexiglass, which confined her in a cocoon of post-its, ballpoint pens and landline phones. She waited until the exclamations of the panic gathering were far enough away and calm gradually returned to continue reading.

She therefore delved again with delight into her novel until something else interrupted her. Not a sick person screaming in pain in a nearby room or any other noise which, after fourteen years of working at this position, almost formed the usual sound atmosphere of the Moscow hospital. It was a silhouette, dark and blurred, that advanced towards the entrance, detaching itself from the night that seemed to recede in front of its presence. A person coming to seek help or a loved one eager to check on was normal when we officiate at the reception of the largest care center in the capital. But it’s much less banal at four in the morning.

The silhouette dragged its feet, her hairline blurred in the usual icy wind of Russian nights. The automatic doors opened by sliding. He was a man in his twenties, wrapped in two big turtleneck sweaters, a long and voluminous chouba and an endless scarf. Her scalp was covered in snow, a very visible contrast between her immaculate white and the charcoal-black mane. He seemed immensely tired.

The lady of the welcome set her book aside and quickly hid it under some papers. While waiting for the stranger to come to her office and deigns to open her mouth, she made a small bet with herself on the reasons for his presence. In his eyes, the most likely possibility, given the quality of his coat, was that of the rich kid thrown out of his house who would have been cut off from living conditions and who would be looking for a place to sleep. There was also that of the mentally ill in the middle of a psychotic crisis who would have seen the light and directed himself towards it like a moth, or even that of the young drug addict in full descent completely lost.

The man placed his hands on the reception counter. They were pale with rosy joints and residues of earth and brown dried blood darkened the nails. He had blue, almost purplish lips, and a pale complexion.

- Good evening, sir, said the lady, appearing as welcoming as possible even though the pursuit of her book was long overdue.

- Good evening, ma'am. 

The gaze of the stranger floated limply around the woman’s face before descending to the badge on her chest that indicated her name.

- Good evening, Irina, he continued, his voice mushy and numb.

- Are you alright? Do you need something? asked the said Irina.

- Precisely yes, replied the man, taking back a semblance of composure.

He untied his scarf and let it hang from his neck before crossing his fingers with an air of a businessman about to propose the perfect deal. He took a tired breath and declared;

- I would like to give my liver back. 

Chapter Text

Bettorah believed in several things, and it was as hard as iron because he had nothing else to hold on to, in reality. To the great displeasure of his parents, Yahweh was not part of it.

He defended that the intelligence of Man prevailed over the rest, hence his total addesion with the proverb 'with knowledge comes power'. He had set himself the idea, a few years ago, to join the most prestigious university in Russia at the cost of all his savings and to learn as many things as possible there. This goal of life might seem vague but Bettorah knew that amassing knowledge - "the sword whose blade never gets dusted," he said - would serve him at one moment or another. He would not be the boss of any important company, those people were stupid, naive, egocentric and malevolent. No, he would be the vice-president, the Gray Eminence, the one who whispered in the ears of idiots to manipulate them while making them believe that all decisions came from them. This was how his brain eager for knowledge, like an ogre constantly waiting for new young people to devour, would make him indispensable and irreplaceable.

Also, since he was far from being stupid, he knew that he would spend all his schooling alone and it absolutely didn’t bother him. It is better for the one who aspires to erudition that he remains alone rather than being surrounded by paraisseful imbeciles who will only slow him down in his quest. One is never better served than by oneself, after all. But in reality, there were two reasons why it was certain that no one would approach him this year, and surely those that would follow.

First, his character. Bettorah was skeptical, solitary, sarcastic and inclined to judgment. In addition to that, even if it cost him to admit it, sometimes loneliness weighed on him. And when something weighs on a man, he seeks a way to forget it, and rarely in a very healthy way. Bettorah had chosen alcohol.

In his old satchel where the textbooks and novels of Kafka or Homer were piled up, there was always a flask more or less filled with whiskey or pure vodka. His fuel, which he consumed daily, year after year, until his skin turned yellow. At first, it was barely visible, a subtle nuance that blended with the pale beige of her epidermis. Then, he noticed it one fine day while looking at himself in the ice and realizing that the white of his eyes was no longer so that consequently, this poison which he took day after day naturally began to have harmful effects. 

But once again, he was not foolish. He knew that he would not be able to stop drinking from one day to the next, that he would continue to poison himself. What he was planning was to just try to reduce his alcohol consumption until leaving university and find a job that would earn him enough money to afford a liver transplant. Bettorah knew nothing about medicine. 

***

The library quickly became its territory, its refuge, its feast of knowledge, its fountain of knowledge. He always sat in the same place; a small two-seater table opposite a tall window overlooking the rooftops of the insistut, a spot equipped with a balustrade accessible by an old door with a broken lock where students sometimes came to smoke joints. 

Bettorah had chosen literature as a specialization, because it was what he simply preferred. But besides that, he spent all his free time reading about other topics that could be useful to him. 

Also, that day, he was immersed in his reading of the Communist Party manifesto. He appreciated Karl Marx, his ideas and the way he explained things. Philosophy in general was a subject he studied with the greatest interest. On the one hand because learning about the views of different people who have spent their lives trying to understand the world can help us understand it ourselves and form our own opinion, and on the other hand because it made him feel more intelligent. 

He was distracted from his quest for information by bursts of voices and laughter. Lifting his head, he saw a group of young people crossing the rotten old door to go sit on the mossy and wet floor or lean against the stone balustrade to smoke and laugh. It could have been any group of students that Bettorah would have forgotten two minutes later if it hadn’t been for him.  

He did not know his name but had already seen it many times in the corridors, always surrounded by his flock of boys and girls of his age who turned around him like planets around a sun. A sun, yes, this boy radiated like a sun. He projected a spectacular aura of self-confidence and charm that no one could resist. It was this magnetic emanation that caused Bettorah to stare at him for a good twenty seconds before returning to his information feast, readjusting on his nose the sunglasses he wore most of the time in order not to attract sideways glances due to his partially yellow peed eyes. 

***

He shared his room with a junkie whom he despised by barely hiding him. Since he was very intelligent and moreover he knew it, he allowed himself to judge people without really shame. He thus endeavored to criticize his roommate as soon as he opened his mouth either to say any absurdity during an acid trip or to moan or even scream to death, then in full descent. However, he was criticizing him silently. 

Intelligent people, such as him and according to him, did not have to spend their words on stupid people who do stupid things. The intellectual’s brain was a rifle which he loaded while reading or swallowing some interesting information, and his mouth was the cannon, the place from where occasionally sharp words and scathing tirades could come out when the situation required it. But this weapon required economical and expert handling. Indeed, the intellectual knows when to speak up to throw a ball of knowledge above his opponent. Saying too much was emptying his charger unnecessarily. All this to say that Bettorah used to mentally judge her roommate while the latter was gossiping about trivial and inept things, as he was doing that day. 

- Eh, you know what? he began.

Bettorah remained silent, throwing his bag full of books at the foot of his bed and flopping into it. Hanz, the inveterate glue sniffer, continued; 

- I remember that day when I went to the chiropractic...

"Chiropractor" thought our scholarly hero rummaging through his bag to extirpate a packet of crumpled Marlboro, for when he was not drinking, he smoked. The human is designed to replace one addiction with another, anyway, right? 

- ... because I had a big knot on my back, something severe, very painful! And so, I go there and I am su-per anxious, I don’t tell you! 

"But don’t tell me, Hanz, don’t tell me!"

- And so, it’s a lady who receives me and she even has latex gloves! So I tell myself... (he paused slightly to light a freshly rolled joint)... I tell myself that she is going to disembowel my ass, like a hidden S&M porn camera thing. 

"The verb 'disembowel' only works when we talk about opening the belly of an animal or a human, but it’s certain that when we spend our time getting high or fornicating with the girls in the room opposite, we don’t have much time to open a fucking dictionary.", continued Bettorah by igniting the end of a cigarette, pulling a long tired toke and going to sit at the window because he appreciated very little the smell of fermented tobacco. 

- What am I doing, I start to scream and run everywhere and cry - I cry A LOT - and then the lady tells me to calm down and that she’s just going to crack my back, you see? So I calm down and sit down and she starts cracking my back and it feels too weird! Have you ever cracked your back? No, huh. And at one point, all of a sudden, there is a BIG crack and I scream because I felt like I had lost a fucking bone! And actually in the end I felt much better, really and all but I will never do it again in my life, I tell you. And so, overall what I wanted to say with this story is, uh... 

He pulled on his joint, looking thoughtful but in a way that made him seem even more retarded. 

- ... and I remember more of what I wanted to say, in fact. 

Bettorah took a long breath through the nose before declaring. 

- I think it is preferable that you keep quiet given that you pollute the atmosphere of this room not only with the smoke of your o many joints but also with your incessant blah blah that reduces the intellectual quotient of your future children - if at all a girl other than a junkie dares to one day approach you to get some. Moreover, we both know that all this bullshit you spew all day long is only there to compensate for the interstellar void that reigns in your cranial box. 

Hanz was silent, looking at him at the same time dismayed, defeated, lost and stupid. 

And thus the bullet was fired. 

Chapter Text

There was a tradition established at the Lomonossov Institute some years ago that involved organizing a big party in the school’s gymnasium on the occasion of the 100 days before the end of the school year. There would be alcohol, mainly vodka, neon lights, very loud music, drugs - a lot of drugs - and sex - a lot of sex. The students were stamping the day, eager to indulge in the most excruciating debauchery during this special evening where everything was allowed. 

Bettorah, for his part, had the plan to remain cloistered in his room as the good introvert he was and with a little luck, his roommate, who probably hated him, would bring him a small bag of white powder. 

Around nine o'clock in the evening, he was lying on his bed, a cigarette in his mouth and eyes on the ceiling. He didn’t think of anything in particular, just wishing to let the nicotine soak his lungs and mind. He imagined himself being like those tired men in these paintings of Slavic or American origin that he sometimes saw in museums, in corners where no one ever looked because no one was interested in tired people. It’s a shame, by the way, because these are often the people who know the most. When one remains slumped on a couch all day reading, smoking or drinking coffee, one quickly becomes invisible like a tired spectre or a wax statue that would slowly melt, and thus one can listen to the conversations and observe the scenes that take place around us. A worn-out body is the price of a sharp mind. 

Yet, Bettorah was not really someone washed-up on a daily basis. He sometimes dozed in class or at the library when he had read all night but most of the time, he was just... normal, although rather tired in general. To be fair, instead of being tired, he was anxious. 

His parents had one day confessed to him that during his early childhood, every time an adult or even another toddler asked him a question he did not know the answer, he started to stammer and compulsively scratch himself before going to hide behind his mother’s legs. He therefore had to wear gloves for years to avoid having damaged skin. Unfortunately, this habit never really left, even getting worse over time. 

Bettorah slowly began to doze off around twenty-two o'clock when the door of his room opened in a sharp snap, making him jump and utter a curse in his native language. It was - what a charming coincidence - about the boy-sun that he had from time to time had the opportunity to admire from his table in the library.

- Oh, hi, said the latter while looking around the room.

Our "hero" - because in my opinion, he deserves his quotes - as well as this cameo of Hanz resided in a medium-sized room, even narrow, with their beds positioned on each side of the door, against the walls, opposite one another. At the ends of the beds, there were two rather old secretaries already baptized with a few writings, scratches, nicks, and dried chewing gum. And finally, after the austere layers and creaky desks, there was a large window, right in front of the door, that opened onto the wood at the back of the institute where Hanz said he saw witches when he was under drugs, that is to say most of the time.

The boy-sun had therefore appeared by the door, letting his alert gaze wander through the room to stop on the left bed, where Bettorah lay, who seemed both surprised, annoyed and intrigued.

- Do you know where Hanz is? He promised to let me try the heroin he got a week ago, continued the human star. 

-  He left two hours ago, I think. I don’t know where he is.

- Oh, shit... never mind. You’re his roommate, right?

- Yes. 

- What’s your name?

- Bettorah.

- I’m Dmitriev. Do you want some beer, Bettorah?

- Okay.

The aforementioned Dmitriev the Solar Orb took a few steps then spread out on the bed which faced that of Bettorah, usually occupied by Hanz and handed him a plastic cup stamped with the emblem of the university filled with a beverage whose color resembled the skin of the self-proclaimed Intellectual. The latter moved from a lying position to sitting and accepted the drink. 

- If you want to buy drugs, Hanz is far from the most reliable person you can find on this campus, Bettorah said while sipping his sour-tasting beer. 

- Do you know anything about it?

- I just know that one day he offered me a joint, I said yes and regretted it. 

Dmitriev looked like a nobleman. He was Russian, an obvious detail due to his first name but also because of his appearance which is both cold and welcoming, as if he were deciding who should belong to his entourage according to very precise criteria known only to him. He had for the moment only a facade of politeness towards Bettorah, who had noticed that he was not staying in the same room as him because he was too lazy to trudge throughout the school in search of dope. 

- Wouldn’t you have a cigarette? Just to compensate..., Dmitriev asked rubbing his nose. 

His interlocutor leaned forward and rummaged in his bag to take out his package of Marlboro. By probing the entrails of his bag, he made an object pass by which Dmiriev noticed. It was a small black kippa with frayed and chewed edges. 

- You are a Jew? asked the Nordic nobleman, pulling out a silver lighter.

- Yes. But I am non-practicing. 

- Why?

- None of your business.

- Okay. 

A long silence settled between them. Dmitriev lay down, returned to the seated position, stood up, took a few steps, sat at the window. He looked worried and stressed. 

Bettorah, who did not really appreciate that people were constantly fiddling around him, asked him; 

- What do you have?

- Nothing, nothing... it’s just that in two days, I have a philosophy exam and I understand nothing about it. 

Little Bettorian eyebrow raise. 

- There are two or three of which I roughly understood the ideas, like Schopenhauer or Marx, since they are relatively simple. But others, like Nietzsche... 

He made a pout accompanied by a hand gesture to signify that the complexities of Nietzschean philosophy were escaping him. 

Bettorah could have made a condescending remark, mentally or verbally, about Dmitriev’s ignorance but something intimidated him in the latter. He felt a bit like a serf afraid to answer a question from his lord. He drew a long tap that he exhaled by the nose, then questioned;

- What, precisely, is it that you don’t understand?

- The delirium of the "Nietzschean superman", there. 

- Oh, it’s simple. 

New long term. Dmitriev leaned forward and began for the first time to look at Bettorah, who got up and threw his consumed cigarette out of the window, with interest. 

- Overall, if I remember correctly, the concept of superman from Nietzsche’s point of view represents someone who would act out of duty, and not in accordance with duty. 

Dmitriev nodded, attentive, his face buried in his hand and his brows furrowed. His substitute teacher continued;

- For example, um... (he ran a hand through his slightly greasy hair and scratched his neck)... takes a doctor. A doctor who saves lives but only to earn money, he acts in accordance with duty, according to his profession, while a doctor who will save lives solely for bah... to save lives, he acts out of duty, and this is the kind of person that Nietzsche calls a superman. It is not a being superior in the biological sense, but rather an ideal of humanity that has overcome nihilism and created its own values. Globally and vulgarly. 

His audience - which, therefore, did not boil down to a single person - was subjugated. He had a kind of small light in his eyes, as if he had reached epiphany or some spiritual awakening. Dmitriev seemed strangely fascinated and absorbed by the words of this little introverted and invisible guy, this layer of asociability that hid a sublime brain. 

A brain all to his taste. 

Chapter Text

It had now been more than two weeks since Dmitriev had regularly been intruding into the routine - and the room - of Bettorah, and sometimes even the other way around. 

Dmitriev had introduced his new friend to his group of small planets who were ecstatic at the presence of a Dutch Jew in Russia, an exoticism too incredible for their privileged children’s brains.

The holidays were gradually approaching, and it was felt by the gradual complacency that was spreading among the tired students.

Bettorah’s urine had turned brown and his daily fatigue was now more heavy. One fine day, he felt so tired that he had not left his dormitory for the day, overwhelmed by what seemed to him to be the weight of a bear lying on top of him. He would never have missed an hour of class, in other words the opportunity to enrich his hungry brain. But that day, to dry his classes seemed to him the only thing to do to avoid collapsing from exhaustion in the middle of a corridor.

That afternoon, therefore, the snow was falling and Bettorah remained cloistered in her room, hidden under her thick and outdated blanket. The worst part of this situation was that he could barely sleep. All he managed to get were kinds of ten or fifteen minute micro-naps where he ended up woken by students running in the halls to avoid a delay.

At one point, he tried to sit up to look in his bag for his pure vodka flask but instead, his fingers grabbed his kippah, pulled it out of the wallet and brought it back before the weary eyes of its owner.

He contemplated the jagged edges of the fabric circle, a consequence of the anxiety he had suffered from childhood. It brought back a memory that he would have preferred to bury forever under hectoliters of alcohol; the day he had renounced Judaism.

At that moment, the door opened on Dmitriev, his arms loaded with books and all, surmounted by a cardboard box.

- Dmitriev? What are you doing here, you... you should be in class..., Bettorah articulated.

- Rah, I already told you to call me Dima, all my friends call me Dima! It was Hanz who told me where you were, I came to see how things were going.

- It’s fine bof...

- I see that!

- Don’t you have a cigarette?

- Oh no, sorry, I’m out of money.

Dmitriev pulled a chair from one of the desks and went to sit next to the bed where his friend was lying. He placed a hand on Bettorah’s arm, squeezed it slightly.

- How do you feel? he asked further down.

- ... I am not at my best. But I just need some rest, it will be fine.

- I noted what we studied in class, sorry to write me a bit shitty...

- Thank you, it’s nice.

- Yeah, I know, I’m a great guy, I know.

- I never said that...

A little silence settled before they giggled like kids.

- Ah! exclaimed suddenly Dima. In fact...

He leaned forward and reached into a back pocket of his pants to take out a cigarette.

- ... I have one left!

- Give me. I’m dying.

- Nah, we share.

Immediately, he lit it and took a puff and stuck it in the corner of the dry and cracked lips of Bettorah so that he smoked.

Dmitriev then embarked on a non-exhaustive summary of the subjects addressed today so that his comrade could catch up even if in truth, he just wanted to see his formidable brain at work like a prodigious machine with fine and sophisticated gears.

- Afterwards, I think that this subject will spread out until next week, it’s a new chapter so-

- Wait, wait, stop, Dima.

- What’s wrong?

The confident smile and warm expression of the rich Russian froze. Bettorah passed his hands over her face, rubbing her eyes and letting out an exhausted sigh. 

- I’m sorry, but I’m too tired to hear about the classes. 

Dmitriev, who was just there leaning forward, elbows resting on his thighs in a posture of interest and attention for his intellectual. He had that look that absolutely everyone would dream to have on him. But when the said interlocutor asked him not to mention the painful subject of the lectures, and by extension his quest for knowledge, he slowly let himself fall back against the chair’s backrest, with a very subtle irritation in the corner of his eyes. 

- Oh. Okay. 

A rather heavy long silence ensued between them. 

- Why is your skin yellow? asked Dmitriev suddenly without the slightest preamble. 

Bettorah sighed again, then put all his last forces to work to sit up and sit down. He crossed his legs and fingers and took a long breath. 

- It’s a disease called jaundice, it comes from a malfunction of the liver. Basically, passing the medical details, my liver is dying.

- It’s true that you drink a lot...

- No shit, Sherlock. 

They laughed together, which finally eased the atmosphere. Dmitriev also crossed his legs and struck a pose that made him seem more invested in the conversation, and he was.

- And... have you been drinking for a long time?

- Since I was thirteen, maybe? It’s quite blurry. Since I was there most of the time, I don’t remember much. Or maybe...

Something passed before his eyes; a memory, but not a good one. 

- Do you want to know why I’m no longer Jewish?  

Dima didn’t answer, which meant he was all ears. 

- As you must know, when Jewish boys are thirteen years old, they celebrate their Bar Mitzvah, the transition to adulthood. But parents are very fervent and they put pressure on me not to mess everything during the ceremony. They already knew that I was not comfortable in society. And then there was my grandmother, Mamo, with whom I spent a lot of time. As she had made war, she was telling me stories. Except that she drank a lot and she left glasses of wine everywhere and I was stressed so I was drinking to relax. But the wine was quickly no longer enough and I started drinking more frequently and stronger...

He marked a pause, demanding with a gesture the almost completely consumed cigarette still stuck between Dmitriev’s lips. After taking a puff, he continued.

- On the day I had drunk so I don’t really remember what happened. But my mother told me. She told me that when it was time to read the Torah, I had stopped talking and turned towards the assembly laughing. Apparently, I would have looked straight at my grandmother and said, I quote; 'we fuck the Nazis, Mamo, right?'. 

Bettorah gave a bitter laugh with the self-derisory intention but tinged with shame. Dmitriev had a slight sorry smile. 

- According to mom, I would have embarked on a rather incoherent speech about why Hitler would truly be Muslim and of Asian origin, then when my father wanted to get me out to avoid a scandal - a scandal that had already occurred, we are not going to lie, he told me that I was an atrocious disappointment for him. I remember that. 

He covered a part of his face with his hand while staring at the void. 

- Except that I’ve been stupid, I don’t remember that either. I’ve been horrible, despicable. I got angry, but it would have to be against my father or the rabbi, I don’t know... I told myself that everything was Mamo’s fault, that she was the 'original Jewess of the family', that it was her who had introduced me to drinking. 

His voice began to tremble, to weaken. He scratched the back of his hand.

- I went after her, she hadn’t done anything at all. I pushed her, but she fell badly and broke a leg. She was a very fragile woman. 

Suddenly realizing how stupid and ungrateful he could appear, he rushed towards Dmitriev and, with a sudden burst of energy, took his hands in his own and planted his wet eyes in his own.

- But I wanted to apologize! It was my parents who no longer wanted to see me. I was too afraid to see them again when she was on her deathbed, but I would have done anything for her to know how badly I blamed myself!

Bettorah trembled but in his gaze, Dima unearthed this flame that fascinated him so much; this irrepressible need to prove itself to the whole world. 

Chapter Text

It was the end of the year and the only indicator that several months had passed was Bettorah. His hair had grown until it reached the middle of his back and his dark circles seemed to take the same direction. Her skin had kept its usual urinary tint, just like her irises. He had managed to counter his problems of extreme fatigue by an equally extreme consumption of coffee and cigarettes. Of course, it regularly accompanied these two objects of salvation with rum or scotch. 

It was Monday and the graduation ceremony was at the end of the week. 

Bettorah knew that he was going to pass, he was aware that all those sleepless nights fighting against sleep were going to pay off. He wa regularly feeling a mix of stress and eagerness - eagerstress ? - as the graduation ceremony approached. He wanted, perhaps more than anything else, receive this oh so prestigious validation of his intelligence and perseverance by the academy itself. He couldn't wait to hold this paper which certainly wasn't as important as a diploma but that would be enough to prove that Bettorah had made one more big step in his conquest of knowledge and reputation. 

But also, that meant that he'd have to go home for summer; a a big problem, since his parents had categorically rejected him since the Mamo incident. He had nowhere to go, no place that felt like home for him, not even his university room. So he was anxious about the summer and what he had to do about all of this. Sometimes, being conscient of so many things and being the only person reponsable and "in charge of it" - as simple and stupid as it could seem - was quite overwhelming. Bettorah had the scummy habit to overthink about a lot of thing, from urgent to insignificant. 

***

- How do you feel about the end of the year, Bett ? Dmitriev asked while they were smoking blunts at the secret mossy balustrade spot. 

Bettorah looked up at his copy of Hermann Hesse’s 'Steppes Wolf', a book which he had read several times since he identified particularly deeply with the protagnonist. 

- We'll be on vacation so I am quite impatient to finally be relieved from homework and exams and all that shit, Bettorah answered in a very non-convincing tone, perhaps because he was really tired. 

He taked a long puff, closed his book and put is back in his old satchel. 

- What are you gonna do this summer ? inquired Bettorah after throwing his blunt stub off the balustrade. 

It was late afternoon, the sky had softly darkened with some discreet shades of pink at the horizon level. 

- Mh, probably going back at Bruzya's to pass the summer like I always do. 

- Who's Bruzya ?

- Well, it's my family's domain but it feels so much like a real entity sometimes, whith it's own will, you know ?

- I don't.

- You only understand it when you're there. 

- Oh...

Bettorah took his usual vodka flask out of his bag and took a short sip. Then he said ;

- You should thank me, you know.

- Why ? 

Dmitriev's confused-ass face at that moment could have easily becomed a viral meme. 

- I gave a huge boost to your reputation by hanging out with you throughout the year.

- What do you mean ?

- You may haven't noticed it but you became some kind of good samaritan, like... (Bettorah was trying to explain himself by making vague tired hand gestures)... you are  not only the rich hot aristocrat anymore. You are now the rich hot aristocrat who is kind enough to be friend with the alcoholic introvert mean sick lonely little Jew. 

- That's a lot of ngative adjectives... wait, you think I'm hot ?

- Dima, everyone thinks you're hot because you ARE hot. 

- True. And thanks for the reputation boost, my sweet little alcoholic introvert mean sick blah blah Jew. 

They both laughed softly as the realized how Hallmark-movie-line-like that sounded. 

Bettorah and Dmitriev had a few weird inside jokes, and a lot of them were about sex and even sometimes about fucking each other. They would discuss in a quite normal way, talking about grades, their future, Hanz’s drug trafficking adventures and it could happen that the conversation ended on the subject of sex positions or something like that. 

***

They were all waiting, even stumbling, bound that they were in their suits and evening gowns. Dmitriev, seated next to Bettorah, had his leg checking even if he didn't let anything appear. 

- You alright ? whipsered Bettorah, leaning slightly towards his friend. 

- Huh, yeah... I've just never been fond of this kind of event. I just hope it'll finish soon, that's all. 

He smiled softly. 

- Well, we are in the same boat. You should use my technique to cope with this kind of situation.

- What technique ?

- Judge people in your mind for no reason. It helps. 

Dima chuckled and placed his hand on Bettorah's arm to squeeze it a bit. The latter wondered why a man with so much confidence and aura was nervous. Everyone had the right to be, but even after a few months to almost live alongside a human sun like him, it was hard to imagine him scared, sad, upset or, like now, anxious. But somehow, it rassured Bettorah, as they were feeling the same, together in their nervousness.  

The university's principal stepped on the stage, behind the mic so everyone could see and hear him. He began to call the students, who came next to him, received a small acolade and returned to their seats. Bettorah took a look behind him and noticed the sea of happy/annoyed parents waiting for their children to have their few seconds under the spotlights. He felt a foolish spark of hope, directly replaced by an inkling of stupidity. Of course his family wouldn't be there, his parents didn't even know he was in this school - or even in Russia - since they refused to hear from their son. 

He leaned towards Dmitriev, who slightly bent forward to get closer. 

- Is your family here ? 

The living-center-of-the-solar-system checked behind him and nodded to someone in the crowd. 

- My brother and his girlfriend. 

Bettorah restrained himself from commenting on Dima's parents' absence. At least, they were sharing something more.

- Dmitriev Aleksandrovitch Yusupov, called the principal. 

- My time to die, joked Dima when he stood up to walk towards the stage. 

The crowd clapped, as it did for all the students who came before. Someone even yelled a "whooo" among the jaded parents. The little anxious dutch Jew was staring at his nails scratching his wrist. He gave a quick look at his friend, who was radiating from where he was, spreading the light of his very slightly nervous smile over the entire assembly, his face opened and luminous, his blond hair like sunrays around it and his eyes reflecting the light. Bettorah was mesmerized, but also terrified because how could he compete with this. Dmitriev came back to his seat and whispered to Bettorah that he thougt he would shit himself on stage in front of everyone, they both laughed as silently as possible. 

- Jeeze, I feel like I am melting insiden, said Bettorah, trying to stop his hands from shaking. 

- It's gonna be okay. You're gonna do it, right ?

No answer. After some other students...

- Bettorah Jonas Mijntberg. 

The principal even made the affront of mispronouncing his lastname. 

Bettorah stood up, walked in auto-pilot mode towards the stage as if he was heading towards a guillotine and his mudder, getting ready to die, which perhaps he would have preferred since he was feeling his organs liquefy inside of him. 

Once on the stage, in front of this swarm of heads all directed towards him as if they were prepared to attack him, he shook the principal's hand, waited exactly two seconds and went off the platform. Usually, he didn't truly care about his appearance but for this time he just desired to hide and never be found as the yellow greasy-haired alcoholic miserable creature he was. 

He came back to his seat and remained silent. 

***

The ceremony finally ended and Bettorah desesparately need a cigarette and a sip of a strong alcohol. 

At the end of the graduation, he lost his friend who had gone to see his brother in the crowd of students who had all stood up at the same time. He eventually found himself at the middle of the large alley at the entry of the university, surrounded by tiny groups of students either with their friends or parents.

Turning towards the building, he remarked for the first time how titanic, austere, and majestic it was. He had for a few seconds the impression that the building was going to come down on him. He just looked the other way, rummaging through his pockets to pull out his usual crumpled Marlboro package, a real relic at this point. He lit a cigarette and started smoking while wandering around without any idea of where to go. 

Then he suddenly felt the urge to cry. 
He felt lost, very small, microscopic among all those people who perfectly knew where to go and what to do while waiting to start their careers. He felt like a child lost in a huge supermarket, crying in search of his parents. His parents would not come to pick him up. 
He even wondered if they had not already replaced him with the kind little nephew Jaan or the wise and calm cousin Adriana. 

As he was slowly was being overwhelmed by this distress, all the stress he felt during the ceremony that was concentrated and pushed down in his guts suddenly kind of exploded in him and gave him a sudden intense nausea as if his anxiety had become a living organism wanting to break out of his stomach. 

Bettorah quickly walked towards an isolated corner to vomit chat seemed to be his visceras. He tried to wipe his mouth whithout leaving to much stains on his suit and turned horrified when he saw a bit of blood in the puddle of vomit. He walked away while he nervously started to pick his lips' skin off. He was thinking about a thousand things at once.

"Are they looking at me ? They are, I think. They are judging me, but isn't it the price for judging people all day because I think I'm superior ?"

"But I am superior, I am smarter and I already know how to live my life !"

"I do ? Really ? Or am I just trying to hide the truth to myself, that I am completely lost whithout my intellect, that I have nothing more than this as well as a tired body and a fucking liver disease."

"I just hide, or leave, or go back to my room. But as the school year is over, is it allowed ? I cannot go back in Netherland, my parents denied me."

"It's their fault, anyways. They pushed me too far as a kid, they are bad parents."

"Or maybe I am the bad son..?"

- Here you are, Bett ! 

Bettorah startled and turned around to face the reassuring solar aura of Dmitriev Aleksandrovitch, coming towards him alongside with another man who was almost similar to him in every way, the only differencse were their eyes and the slight taller height of Dima's probable twin brother. With them arrived a young woman in her early 20s with an adorable face and bright short pink-colored hair and eyebrows. 

Dmitriev passed his arm around his dear friend's shoulders and declared ; 

- Comrade, may I introduce you to my twin brother Yevgueny - who is actually three minutes older than me - and his magnificent girlfriend Marguerite. Zhenya, Rita, I present to you Bettorah, a dear friend I met this year and surely one of the sharpest minds I've ever had the honor to discuss with. 

Bettorah raised his dense and dark eyebrows and blushed violently. 

He stepped forward to shake Dmitriev's family's hands. 

- Enchanted to meet you, Bettorah. Could I call you Bettsy ? said Yevgueny while delicately taking the young dutch's hand to kiss its back. 

This unexpected interaction left Bettorah speechless, just stammering a poor and incomprehensible beginning of sentence. Marguerite came closer to them and gently pushed her companion away to warmly shake the hand left free. This gesture made her huge and colorful golden rings produce click sounds. 

- Do not mind him, she said with a barely noticeable French accent, he does this with everyone he finds pretty.

She gave Bettorah a malicious wink. She had rosy cheeks, nose and lips and a jolly round face. Her body was gracefully curved. She seemed kind. 

- Tu es française ? asked the dark-haired one with a bit of difficulties. 

- Oui, de Lyon. Toi non plus, tu n'es pas d'ici, je crois. 

- I am from Netherland. Sorry, these were the only few French words I remember from the very basic lessons I've got. 

She laughed, tilting against Yevgueny's arm. The top of her head barely reached his shoulder, the same for Bettorah. 

He was still feeling a certain ill-being within him, a constant concern about what he was supposed to do next. Somehow, Dmitriev noticed it. As he had quite an empath temperament, he excused them to his family and gently took Bettorah aside. 

- Are you doing well? I mean... really well, don’t lie to me. Since the ceremony, you look dead inside. If you don’t feel well, we can take you to the clinic or... 

- No, no it’s not that... well..., Bettorah was half embarrassed and half ashamed to talk about what he was going to talk about. It’s just that I don’t really know where to go, and I can’t go back to my parents' place, they hate me, they have denied me, I am no longer their son so I am a lost and... But I will manage, don’t worry! At worst, I will call you, right ? 

He felt like a poor stray puppy begging for a shelter, and he hated that. 

Dima remained silent for a minute, then asked Bett - or "Bettsy" - to stay there because he had to discuss something with his brother. He came back to Yevgueny and started explaining something while doing vague gestures and pointing his friend a few times. Yevgueny - or "Zhenya"- seemed a bith concerned, gave a quick look at Bettorah, who shivered as he felt the twin's black eyes analize his person, and replied to Dima. At a moment, he sighed and pointed his brother with a face that was saying "if we are blamed, you'll be the guilty one". 

Dmitriev went back to Bettorah, looking more solar and satisfied than ever, and said to him ; 

- You will stay at our domain for the hollidays. 

Chapter Text

Bettorah saw Bruzya for the first time the 3rd of August, during the early afternoon. 

It is at this moment, precisely, that he realized that he was going to enter in a much more different and luxurious world than the one he came from. He was born in Amsterdam, a pretty yet quite simple city, very touristic and known for its art and canals. But it's architecture was so far from Bruzya's rich, sophisticated and titanic structure. The difference between these two worlds was so striking it gave him a slight momental dizziness. 

Bettorah was now awkwardly standing for more than twenty minutes in front of the giant wooden carved main doors, feeling his back getting sweaty under his thick black and a bit greasy capillary mass and his light green shirt. 

The left door opened and a very tall b-severe-looking butler appeared. He considered Bettorah from head to toes and asked him who he was. When the young man revealed his name, the butler's face relaxed slightly and he let him in, answering that "Mr. Dmitriev was waiting for him". 

- May I bring your belongings to your room, sir ? 

- Oh- yes, of course, thank you. 

When Bettorah stepped in, he understood what Dima meant when he was saying that he lived at Bruzya's. Passing the main doors felt like entering a monster's mouth, a creature old like the world whose guts were made of sparkling chandeliers, sprawling velvet-upholstered staircases, crumbling shelves of centuries-old original editions and furniture probably worth millions. 

- Bettorah, my dear ! Here you are ! exclaimed Dmitriev, walking down the stairs, looking more solar than never, as he was attracting all the light of the room towards him.

He was wearing a large white shirt and a pair of jeans, bare feet. His golden hair seemed a bit disheveled, as if he just woke up from a very long yet pleasant nap. Dima firmly squeezed his freidn's arm and looked at him right in the eyes in his very own way ; like Bettorah was the most important and precious person in the world. The said Bettorah smiled, reassured by the presence of someone he knew in this huge manor where he was already drowning. 

- Welcome to Bruzya's, let me show you the place, Dima said, heading towards a corridor while the butler was bringing Bettorah's suitcase to the room attributed to him. 

Dima rubbed his hands, gave a quick look behind him to check on his guest and then began to explain.

- So here on the left, we have one of the maaany tea rooms we have since my grandmother is pretty fond of drinking tea. At the far right, we have the art gallery, don't hesitate to visit it anytime you want. 

They took a short flight of stairs and walked through another long hallway with large high windows on the right, like those you could find in a church, looking out onto the gardens, the lake and the grassy plains that stretched to a forest at the level of the skyline and on the left, three doors opening on the dining room. Bettorah thougt that every meal in this room must feel like eating at Versailles. 

And finally, after a quite long walk ; 

- And here is your room ! How do you like it ? If you want to smoke, just open the windows. By the way, we will have to share a bathroom, unless you want to wander through the entire manor to use the another bathroom. 

- Oh, alright, okay. 

He noticed his suitcase in a corner, looked around and raised his eyebrows seeing the gigantic medieval canopy bed where he would have the honor to sleep in. 

As Dmitriev was about to leave the room to leave his friend some time to put his clothes in the wardrobe and maybe hide his alcohol, Bettorah grabbed his arm. 

- I... I will never be able to thank you enough for this, Dima. I don't deserve it, I know it and I promise I won't cause any sort of troubles. I will not embarass you and-

- Hey, calm down, it's gonna be fine ! You don't need to thank me, you are welcome here and I am truly glad to spend more time with you. I will leave you now, okay ? Give you some space. When you're finished with your stuff, join us in the tv room, Vadim will tell you where it is.

- Who's Vadim ?

- The butler who opened the door.

- Ah.

- You alright ?

- Yes.

- Good, I can't wait to present you my parents. 

And then, he left.

Bettorah waited a few seconds, standing in the middle of the room, realizing how fast the things went and where he was. He sat on his bed, laid down and found it extremly comfortable, even too much, as if he would drown in the mattress at any moment. He stood up, opened the window with some difficulties due to the more than outdated state of the places and smoked two cigarettes while thinking about his parents and the fact that if he had told them where he was currently going to stay, at least for a few months, they would never have believed him. Thus, he walked to the bathroom and took his wet shirt off to quickly wash the sweating and hopefully smell a bit better. Bettorah looked at himself in the mirror, right in those miserable fatigued piss-colored eyes of his. He told himself to never look that nervous again in front of Dmitriev or any other member of his family. His liver disease was already making him look like some junkie or something even less flattering. He would stay polite, discreet and only speak when asked to. He also foudn himself physically disgusting and decided to go towards the wardrobe to rummage and grabe a clean darker shirt, a bit too large for him to put on to hide his yellowish skin as much as possible. The only thing he actually liked about his body was his hair.

Dmitriev, Yevgeny, their parents ad well as Marguerite were all watching John Carpenter's "The Thing" when Bettorah entered the room with his guts so twisted and intertwined that he was hoping really hard to not throw up on the floor in front of the whole Yusupov family, even he hadn't eaten anything since he woke up and was actually starving. He took five quite long seconds to choose how to salute them. He noticed the clock, the hour and said ;

- Good evening.

Again, his organs were melting inside of him and his hands were getting wet. 

- Oh, it is you ! exclaimed a beautiful probably-around-50 years old woman with blonde hair strewn with grey strands who seemed to be Dima and Zhenya's mother. 

She came towards Bettorah to shake his hand delicately while the latter was stressing as hell, afraid that she would notice the level of sweat of his palms. Instead, she looked at him, kindly and then intrigued. 

- Jesus, my dear, are you alright ? Do you feel well ? she asked, truly concerned. 

- Yes, ma'am, I am okay.

Oh my GOD, you just called her "MA'AM" ?!! What the fuck is wrong with you ? his inner self yelled at him. 

- Please, mother, I told you not to bother him with this ! said Dima in Russian. 

And Bettorah understood that the matriarch was worried about the unnatural color of his skin and not about his - fortunately not so visible - anxiety. He hesitated and added that "he had jaundice" and nothing more, hoping that they woudn't ask anything. He'd rather die right in front of them that admitting he had a problem with alcohol that led to a liver disease. 

- Oh, Lord, how impolite I am ! My name is Nastasia Fedorovna and here's my dear husband Aleksandr and I think you already know about my sons and our lovely Rita. We are delighted to have you with us this summer, we love meeting people from all around the world ! Mitia told us you were from Germany.

- Netherlands. I- I'm Dutch. 

German is good, you shouldn't have corrected her, you dumb shithead.

- Oh ! of course, my bad. I am really bad at geography, I've always been ! Anyways, did Mitia already introduce you to some of our house rules ?

Bettorah frowned slightly and checked out Dmitriev's face to comunicate him something like "why didn't you told about those rules earlier instead of explaining how you accidently fingered your cousin on a Louis XVI desk two years ago ?!!", but the young man was staring at the tv with his hands joined in a way that made him look like he was trying to dissect John Carpenter's way of filming. He even murmured to Marguerite, seated next top him on the sofa ; "damn, that movie is so sick, I love it..."

- He didn't.

- Do not worry, for today you'll just have to remember that we all dress elegantly for dinner, which is served at 7pm. It's a kind of tradition here. 

Nastasia was still holding his hand in hers and, just like her sons - who must had inherited it from her - she was projecting a beam of attention on Bettorah. He really clearly perceived the beat his heart missed when he acknowledged the clear lack of fancy clothing in the wardrobe he had brought with him. He remained silent while his inner self was repeating they he was so so fucked.

Again, Dima had come to save him from an uncomfortable situation.

- Zhenya and I always wear suits, I must have two or three of them. 

He was rummaging here and there in his room, which was way less tidy and clean that the one attributed to his friend while the latter was observing him, seated on his bed. 

- I foudn something perfect for you, Bett.

Then he turned around towards him and showed a teal green suit - and the trousers as well as the tie that went with it - and a black shirt. 

- You sure ? I'm not really used to wear this kind of-

- Of course I am ! Don't you see how it'll match your eyes and your hair ? It's perfect, just what you need.

And your skin ? Have you thougt about my disgusting yellowish skin ? Have you, Dima ? or do you simply refuse to acknowledge it how sick I am.

- Thank you, I really like it, Bettorah simply answered. 

Chapter Text

Bettorah Mijntberg had "only" been in a relationship with someone three times in twenty-two years of existence.

The first time, he was 16 and she was 15. He met her at her brother's birthday party where she was kind of forced to stay even if she hated all that noise and really loud music. They first noticed each other on that long balcony where they had sought refuge. The electronic rave-style music sounded muffled and distant, the night breeze felt fresh and relieving and they could even hear cicadas somewhere. At this time, Bettorah's hair was short and brunette - which was actually his natural haircolor before he started to dye it in black - and he was purely and simply insignificant, with no friends but quite good grades. He wasn't bothered by it, since he was an introvert since birth. They both were, maybe that's why they began to hang out together. They broke up by mutual agreement because they were more feeling like friands than couple, and right after it, she came out to him as aromantic. 

The second time, they both were 19 and it was at the Lomonossov university. "No way, you've dated Lydia Byatzska ? Me too !" Dima had said when Bettorah told him about it.

- Yes, but she did it because she had lost a bet, so...

- Hm. Sorry for you, Bett. To be honest, I never liked her. And so, what was your last relationship ? 

Bettorah remained silent for a few seconds and took a sip of his martini. 

- I mean, if your comfortable talking about it, completed Dima even if his tone was clearly indicating that was dying to know. 

The all were taking a sunbath next to the domain's lake; Dmitriev and his friend, sitting on deckchairs, chatting about their past relationships, smoking and drinking martinis; Yevgeny and Marguerite, a bit further away from them, were laying on the grass with Saint-Laurent sunglasses on. They seemed to talk to each-other.

- It was two years ago, it last for a few months - Bettorah smoked -... his name was Petel. 

He gave a quick look towards Dima, not knowing what reaction to expect from him. He was looking at the lake, his eyes suinted because of the sun, his skin sweaty and smooth, his hair pulled back looking like each strand was made out of the sun itself. Bettorah took his silence for an invitation to keep going.

- And, uh... I don't know, I can't remember much, he said, tapping his cigarette over a small porcelain bowl to drop his ashes into it. 

Dmitriev lay down and steamed in his deckchair and slowly let his head fall back and closed his eyes. He seemed a bit bored, and Bettorah noticed it, but he was too absorbed by the view he had the occasion to admire at the moment. He became really confused when he realized he was feeling desire for Dima. Fortunately, his sunglasses were hiding where he was staring. 

He took another sip of his martini and a puff of his cigarette and began to unconsciously scratch his arm's skin while he was running his stare on Dima's, the veins of his neck, the drops of sweat on his forehead, the slight curvers of his nose, the slow up-and-down movement of his chest and the general Greco-Roman statue look - but somehow still in a slavic way - of his body. Bettorah suddenly felt the urge to lean forward and kiss that neck, lick it, bite it, smell it, enjoy its warmth and softness, feel Dmitriev's heartbeat pulsing through his veins. 

Bettorah was drawn from his lustful reverie by the sudden pain caused him by his nails when they removed a small piece of skin from his arm. 

- Ah- fuck! he whispered for himself. 

His attention deviating from the Apollo having the best sunny nap of his life right next to him, he saw Yevgeny - or Zhenya - approaching. He was wearing a jean short and a large t-shirt with the "Come and See" movie poster printed on it, as well as Saint-Laurent sunglasses, as said earlier.

- Hey, he saluted, crouching next to the cooler full of ice, champagne and martinis shakers at the foot of Bettorah’s deckchair. 

- Hi.

After grabbing a bottle of champagne, Yevgeny glanced at his brother and scoffed. 

- Jeeze, if he didn't take a nap once a day, I think he'd die or something.

He opened the bottle, making the cork stopper pop, and drank.

- Cool shirt, Bettorah said, trying to hide the little wound on his arm with his hand.

- Hm-! he stopped drinking. Thanks. You've watched it ?  

- Yeah, I think, that movie about World War II in Belarus, right ?

Zhenya nodded.

- Traumatizing, completed Bettorah.

- What's the matter with your hair ? 

- What ?

- I thougt you were naturally black-haired. 

- Oh.

The guest of the Yusupov family touched the top of his head, suddenly realizing that his hair was practically boiling. The last time he had dyed his hair was around a month ago, so he deduced from it that his roots had to take back their original Chatain color. 

- If you wanna dye it, you can ask Rita. She has every single color you can imagine, pursued Yevgeny, looking towards his girlfriend taking a sunbath in the grass. 

- Oh, thank you. 

Yevgeny sat down, looking at his brother's intimate.

- He really likes you, Bettsy. Mitia likes you.

"Bettsy" slightly bit his lower lip, finished his glass of martini. 

- Mitia likes... he loves intelligent people, the type of persons he can listen to for hours and hours. 

- How do you know I am that kind of person ?

- The way he looks at you. 

A long silence followed, only troubled by some birds here and there or the sound of the wind in the trees. 

- You live here, like Dima ? Bettorah asked.

- Oh no, I'm only here to visit my parents and take a break from work. Can I have a cigarette ?

- Sure, here you go.

Zhenya took the cigarette and the lighter and began to smoke before continuing.

- Marguerite and I live in Munich, I'm an attorney and she works in an art gallery. 

- Oh, how did you guys meet ?

- She was a juror in a rape case. When the trial ended, he was guilty, I saw that she was quite upset by all this so I suggested she go have a coffee and voilà.

- Like in "12 Angry Men" ? 

- Kind of, but do not mention that film before her, she hates it. 

They smoked, Zhenya drank some champagne.

- I think that's nice that you still see your family even if you live quite far away, said Bettorah.

- Yeah, it is. I prefer to not forget my roots, even if not as much as Mitia.

- What do you mean ? 

- He is really attached to this domain, our parents, the staff and all. I don't know if he will ever fly out the nest, I'm kinda worried about it. I don't want to forget about my roots, but his are definely too deep in the ground, if you see what I mean...

He lay down, leaning on his arms, and Bettorah noticed how he had almost the same body as Dmitriev, with perhaps a longer torso and a bit more muscular stature. 

- How about your family ? he asked.

To prepare himself for asnwering that question, Bettorah put his empty cocktail glass down and opened the cooler to grab a martini shaker et start drinking directly to it.

- They kind of denied me. I don't think they want to hear about me, not now or in a decade or I don't know. 

- Why ?

- I accidently broke my grandmother's leg while I was drunk at 13 during my Bar-Mitzvah.

- Fuck, that's hardcore. You're jewish ?

- Not anymore.

- Oh. I understand.

- You understand what ?

- Why Dmitriev brought you here. I guess he wanted to, uh... "share the roots" ?

Bettorah looked at the mentionned Dmitriev, still asleep.   

- Maybe.

He took a long sip of martini.

- Perhaps you shouldn't drink that much, Zhenya said.

Bettorah looked down at him, slightly frowning. He always disliked when someone was trying to give him drinking advices.

- Like..., he kept saying,... you liver isn't alright if you have jaundice. 

He went back to a sitting position. He suddenly put a hand on one of Bettorah's deckhair's armrest. 

- Hey, I am not judging or anything. If you want to keep going, that's your business, alright ? 

He sounded a bit drunk, Bettorah had seen him drink four glasses of red wine at lunch, which was a bit more than an hour prior. 

- And you know what ? he continued. I even think that yellow kind of suits you, yeah, kinda.

- You should go inside, take a cold shower, I don't know. 

- Yeah, I think Imma do that.

He stood up and produced a weird sound (a clearing of the throat followed by two short sniffles) and began to walk towards the manor, taking the champagne bottle with him. 

Bettorah remained silent, his heart beatingquite fast, ignoring how he was currently feeling. He braves himself in his chair, furrowed his brows and lit a cigarette.

(how I (the author) see Dmitriev in this scene :)                                                                                                                              

(how I see Yevgeny, again they are twins)                                 

Chapter Text

After he knocked at the door of her room, Bettorah waited for a few pair of minutes. Right at the moment he was about to leave, thinking that she was having a nap or just busy, the door opened. 

- Oh, hi ! Marguerite exclaimed. Do you need something. 

She seemed tired, pale and a bit perturbed. 

- Are you okay ? questionned Bettorah.

- Ah, yeaah, don't worry. I just... I just started my time of the month so I am not at my prime, right now. So what do you need ?

- You know about the dinner with the Baranovskyi tonight ?

- Uh-huh ?

- Well, I would like to, uh... 

He vaguely pointed his face, not knowing how to explain what he wanted without sounding superficial or something. He lowered his voice.

- Do you have something that would make my skin look less yellow ?

- So because I'm a girl it means I always have makeup with me and that I only care about my appearance ?

- What ? No ! No,I didn't mean to sound sexist or-

- Just kidding, of course I have tons of makeup and even more hair dyes.

She smiled and winked, moved on the side to let him enter her quarters. In the room reigned a kind of semi-capharnaum, a more or less orderly bazarre, piles of books here and there, clothes crammed on armchairs and a bed covered with cushions of different colors, shapes and textures, which Marguerite pointed at while telling Bettorah to sit there. 

- How do you find it here ? she asked him, searching in some drawers to find her equipment.

- It's nice, everything smells old but in a good way.

- I hope Yev's nice with you.

- He is, yeah. He talked to me about Dima, since he doesn't talk much about himself...

- They look sooo alike, it's crazy !.. ah! here it is !

She came back to him and pulled out a stool covered in purple velvet to sit on it and be at the same level as Bettorah. He looked at her, considering her features ; her face was round-shaped; she had large expressive eyes, like a doe, with hazelnut pupils that seemed to never look at the spot more than five seconds; her hair, dyed in salmon pink, was dense and emmelted, cut right at the level of her chin; her cheeks were slightly rosy and just like him, she had freckles, making her look like a joyful strawberry while his freckles were almost invisible, hidden in the disgusting yellowness of his skin.

- Would this color due for your foundation ? 

- I think so. I just need to hide the general... color, so there won't be any comments or anything. 

- I understand, but that won't stop me from making you super cute for tonight !

- As you wish...

Bettorah sounded equal but internally, he was quite tempted by the perspective of looking good, especially for Dmitriev. He wanted to feel like he wasn't just some poor little nervous creature picked up on the side of the road, begging for affection and consideration or worse : a sick man people would have to show pity to in order to seem like good samaritans. 

Marguerite began to gently dab a kind of small and soft beige sponge covered with foundation against his cheeks, asking him not to move. He felt like Edward Scissorhands in that scene where his sort of foster mother tries her makeup on him, and he hoped he wouldn't end up having his face entirely purple.

- I love your hair, she said. I think long hair suit men so much. 

- Thank you, but it is not really voluntary. I just kind of forgot about it and let them grow, but I like it as it is.

- For tonight, you should try to pull it back to show your face a bit more. Wait, what time is it ?

She stopped what she was doing and looked at the alarm clock on her bedside table.

- 7:45pm, we still have time. The Baranovskyi only arrive in one hour. 

Rita put the little spongey thing on the side and took out a pocket mirror to show him how it was going so far.

- Now I'll just, y'know... 

She rubbed her eye, just look a person who just woke up.

- You should maybe go to sleep earlier, tonight..., said Bettorah, gently touching his face.

He almost had forgotten how having a healthy skin was. Perhaps he was actually pretty. 

- Nah, I am alright, I'm just hungry. Whatever, look at me, Imma put some blush on you so you don't look like a Madame Tussaud statue.

Dmitriev didn't like the Baranovskyi family. They were contemptuous and very conscient and proud of being richer than his family. They even had some relatives among the Russian government that Marguerite jokingly accused of being KGB agents. 

He was at his third glass of wine and praying to feel its effects as soon as possible because he didn't know if he could stand hearing the 17-years-old Baranovskyi eldest daughter Irina talk about how exquisite having gay friends was very much longer. He looked at his brother, their eyes crossed and they both understood how annoyed the other was feeling at the moment. He took a few more sips and bites of his super-expensive Wagyu beef steak, his gaze deriving from his brother to his friend. He obviously had noticed Marguerite's work on him and actually, he liked it. He had tried to not make any comment about his condition deteriorating as the months went by, his lack of appetite, his constant fatigue and obviously the color of his skin and eyes. But now, he was feeling sort of relieved, like if all his health problems had been solved all of a sudden. Bettorah took a glimpse at him and read in his eyes that he absolutely didn't know what to say or do. 

He cleared his throat, and took advantage of the short silence caused by Irina Baranovskyi drinking her wine - probably her throat was all dried up from talking THAT MUCH - to propose ; 

- I'm going to smoke outside, anyone wants to join me ? 

- I'd like to, said Bettorah.

They stood up and walked to a balcony separated by the Versailles-looking dining room by a French window. 

- Jesus Christ, I thougt I was going to literally die of boredom, woaah..., sighed Dmitriev while looking in his pockets to find his beloved Marlobor's. 

- Are they always like that ? 

- Unfortunately yes, but at least we only get to see them once a year. 

They shared the lighter's fire and glanced at the night stretching towards the lake and the plains. 

- Rita did such a good work on you, said Dima. 

And he muttered ; "you look nice". 

Bettorah heard it, rubbed his nose, took a puff and luckily, the two layers of foundation that Marguerite had carefully applied on his face was hiding the fact that he was blushing. Feeling his cheeks getting warm, he suddenly wondered how this could look, a slight pinkness combined to a piss-colored background, probably a quite ugly vision. 

- You're feeling well ? inquired Dima, turning his face towards his friend.

- Like usual, kind of stagnating. 

- If you don't feel good, make an excuse up and just... I don't know, go sleep.

- Admit it, you'd like to have a liver disease so you can leave the dinner with a perfectly legitimate excuse. 

- To be honest, yes. I should say that, but I'd rather have terminal stage cancer instead of listening to Irina's life any much longer. 

- Yes, you shouldn't but you are right.

They both laughed, perhaps because they were a little drunk. 

He actually stayed at the dinner until the Baranovskyi family left. Everyone went to their rooms and went to sleep, hugely relieved that this evening was over.

Bettorah drank half a flask of pure scotch before changing into a boxer and an oversized shirt he had found in his closet. He went in his shared bathroom to clean his face, going back to his usual tired and sick-looking face. He was revolted by himself, but decided to swallow this feeling like all those heroes of romantic comedies who must hide that they are in love and guard it within him. There was no point in complaining about his fate, about a disease that he had gradually inflicted on himself. The best was to think about it as little as possible while waiting to find a solution. 

He woke up in the middle of the night, circa something like 4am, because of a creaking of the floor and saw a dark silhouette right next to his bed.

- Holy fuck-! he exclaimed, stepping back as much as possible against the headboard, entangled in the blankets, feeling in the dark to turn on the bedside lamp. 

- Hey, hey, that's me, it's alright, whispered the silhouette. 

Bettorah recognized the voice and calmed a bit down, still frightened to find someone in his room in the middle of the goddamn night. 

- Why are you whispering, he asked.

- My parents have very light sleep, the slightest noise can wake them up and you wouldn't want them to wake up, would you ?

- Oh, no, of course not, murmured Bettorah. But what are doing here, it's like 4 am ? 

- It's alright.

The shadow walked closer, extending its hand to caress his cheek with the back of his fingers. Then it leaned forward to kiss Bettorah. They separated, always close to each other. The young black-haired man* was surprised, of course he was, but then tried to reiterate the experience but the obscure shape grabbed his blanket instead to slowly pull it from his chest to his thighs. Then he slipped underneath, very close to Bettorah’s legs, disappearing under the fabric of the apais and becoming nothing more than a dark shapeless mass, a mass who slipped his fingers up to his boxer shorts to remove it while Bettorah wasn't moving, as fearful as curious. Then he said the last words heard that night;

- Spread your legs.

He did it, confused and obedient, really embarassed to have his crotch exposed before someone's eyes. Since he wasn't stupid, he knew - more or less - what was about to happen and was okay with it. To be fair, he had never been in a situation of this kind before and was feeling quite nervous, while the little voice of his inner self was trying to explain this situation. 

Did we somehow asked for it ? Maybe it is his way of reclaiming a prize for letting us crash there ? Is it even normal ? it probably is in this family, we should not try to contradict their manners. We should not move, let him do. Maybe we'll like it, yeah, it'll be fine, it'll be fine. And actually, we want it, don't we ? We want him, I guess we do. We must let him do. We must lay down, shut up and enjoy.

He was squitting his eyes to discern what was almost hiding between his legs. His fingers tensed on the sheets when he perceived a breath against his skin around his pubis, understanding where his face was in relation to his body. Bettorah laid down, letting his head sink in his huge pillow, his hair scattered around his face. He hold his breath when the shade encircled his thighs firmly from below with his arms, his fingers pressing on his skin. And it began.

An unknown and burning pleasure spread from his lower abdomen to the tips of his limbs. He felt extremely well, even more eager, while all his muscles relaxed. And it kept going, intense waves succeeding each other. He pressed his hand against her mouth to avoid really embarrassing sounds of coming out. He felt numb, soft, tired but satisfied. His pelvis stirred imperceptibly, his back arching slightly as his thoughts were all tangled and his sensations clashing. Images came back to his head, mixed and inconsistent: Marguerite’s glass of wine at the diner with a trace of brown lipstick on it; a lake with algae on its surface and dragonflies flitting around; titanic doors, engraved; rock salt on a horribly expensive steak; old clothes smelling like the closed in a wardrobe; a young blond man that Michelange would have loved to carve; a cooler filled with alcohol; a room plunged into darkness. 

Something he hadn’t felt in a long time began to grow within him, a kind of countdown before something great. His breath was short, panting. He didn’t know what to do with his hands. The tips of his fingers slowly ran through his belly, his chest, the surface of his burning skin. And suddenly, his body contracted and his breath was cut off when he reached it, a wave of pleasure bursting in your body, extreme well-being.

Then he felt incredibly tired, drained of all forces but really feeling good for the first time in a long while.