Chapter Text
More than a day, no sleep, and no sustenance later, Ezra flings his Vine against the wall after sending Levy the ping. Regrettably, the Vine doesn’t break - Grapevines are manufactured to last a lifetime, ensuring the State never has to replace them, with nano-tech updating the hardware regularly. It ricochets off the wall and lands unscathed on the desk, unused since Ezra huddled over it all summer to complete his coursework.
He hasn’t worked since May, when a single night's efforts secured him enough credits to sustain him until autumn - but now it’s mid-September and the only thing staving off his hunger is heartbreak and stims, with Manna providing little relief. As he can’t bring himself to go to Levy’s residence, and no amount of pharmaceuticals seem to sway his resolve not to, Ezra has to rely on the sawdust taste of Manna for the foreseeable future.
He contemplates the feasibility of his survival should he choose to leap from his forty-second floor veranda, and stifles his sobs into his pillow, acutely aware that only the thought of Crowley seems to anchor him to life; dying means there’s no chance of ever seeing him again. Despite the haze of conflicting substances, he is plagued by persistent visions of what might have been if he had let Crowley turn him around in that back alley, have him open the bottle of lube and claim Ezra utterly. Or, what could have transpired if he had escorted Crowley up the staircase instead, into the elevator and home - perhaps they would have found themselves in bed at this very moment, sweating, euphoric and honest.
What a waste of time, musing over something that can never happen - even if Ezra had acted differently yesterday, it seems Crowley has rendered him useless for intimate pleasures. His insistence on retaining Ezra’s mind within his body seems to be exactly what makes Ezra unable to perform sexually.
How utterly pathetic he is, he thinks to himself - now a broken whor* who can no longer f*ck for credits after having failed at his poor attempt at f*cking for fun.
He retrieves the Vine, opening the illicit script to read all the pings again. He plays Born Slippy - mp3 play count: 58 - and considers sending something to Crowley, typing a few ludicrous words before backtracking his woefully inadequate expression of regret. Crowley deserves far better than anything Ezra has to offer, a fact he is painfully aware of.
Disheartened, he finds Fahrenheit 451 and a pen, and settles by his desk to write an entry:
"Mama, bereft of nourishment and slumber, I drown in pharmaceutical oblivion - yet his face besieges my tormented mind ceaselessly. Can I not have him? Is there not any version of reality in which he could belong to me, and I to him? I need him so, I pine for him, and I cannot go on like this. I fear that, should he make another advance, my resistance will crumble. I apologize in advance, for I have become lamentably weak.
Fate has dealt its blows, your death being the cruelest, but this rivals its bitterness. I cling to life solely for the lingering taste of him; I dread the moment it fades. Forgive the tears this may draw if you find me gone from this world. My existence hangs by a thread."
How exceedingly, ridiculously melodramatic! He lets out a hollow sigh - the entry reads like a Victorian suicide letter. Perhaps indeed it is one? He laughs darkly to himself, for reasons eluding him finding that he can’t stop. Embracing the absurdity, he prepares an abominable concoction of Manna and stevia, consuming it with his breath held before falling into a fitful thirteen-hour slumber.
Time melds into a monotonous blur of ganja smoke and pill-induced stupor. He avails yet another week of sick leave from lectures, which will have to be explained upon his return. If he returns - if he doesn’t jump.
Absentmindedly watching BE-reels - reruns of things he used to watch as a child, mostly - while forcing down Manna-shakes, he considers spending his remaining UBI-credits on protein powder, merely for the taste of something less repugnant. Yet, doorstep delivery is a luxury beyond his means, and venturing outside in his state is out of the question. Moreover, what if Crowley is still lurking downstairs? And wouldn’t it be lovely, though, if he did? Ezra could bring him inside and never let him leave.
Innumerable times every day, Ezra checks his Vine with a mixture of anticipation and desperation, holding onto the slim hope that he may somehow have overlooked a notification from Crowley - but there’s not a single sound from his device until Thursday afternoon. Ezra throws himself over his Vine, his heart alight, then quickly plunged into crushing disappointment.
Alyx Beneš takes great pride in zer intellect, paying him for witty repartee and the assurance of equitable interaction, as if the latter can ever be bought. Ze desires the company of a refined and scintillating Ezra, whose charm and eloquence are expected to enliven zer evening until the moment arises for them to retreat to zer abode for hours of passionate f*cking, during which ze expects sincere moans, feverish whispers and transcendent climaxes… At least on zer end. During their last encounter, Ezra's failure to reach a climax - attributed to an excessive consumption of alcohol - seemingly perturbed Alyx only to the extent of polite concern. Ezra plans to achieve the same level of inebriation tomorrow night.
Declining an engagement with Professor Beneš might fuel unwelcome gossip - and Beneš pays well; both in terms of credits, but also in terms of being a well-connected faculty member often attending gatherings with ha-Gan’s academic and cultural elite, of which high-ranking members of the Ophanim are quite numerous. Having dirt on Ophanim is a decidedly more effective tool for ascending the social ladder than merely securing their favor.
Ezra feels nauseous merely at the notion of physical contact with anyone but Crowley, but he must compose himself should he hope to maintain the attention of the university’s luminaries. While navigating the event pages on Shout to request permission to attend the party, he banishes from his mind the memory of soft caresses from someone who’d rather be seen as a lover than a client. A few minutes later, his request is approved, and Ezra drugs himself to oblivion with muted cartoon reels projected onto his wall. Awakening nearly a day later with a thundering headache and a mouth so dry his tongue is scraping painfully against his palate, he scrambles for his stims, needing them to prepare for work.
Once every hair from beneath his nose to his toes is shaved, Ezra twists the nozzle on his shower head to emit only a thin stream of water. Squatting over it, he lets it wash all unsightly humanity out of him. Against the rising panic, he reminds himself that this has been his ritual nearly every Friday for years, and that beautiful, bold boys with apples and bleeding hearts must not derail his ambitions.
Perhaps boar hunters indeed are the lucky ones - despite their shortened lifespans, they won’t have to shave before work and likely go to bed with full bellies every night, perhaps with other boar-hunters. Could Crowley hunt?
Professor Beneš prefers Ezra in a dress - most clients do. As the party is 1920s themed, the sequin flapper dress ze gave him for last year’s event seems the appropriate choice. Ze would delight in the sight of Ezra wearing it - and would appreciate delicately, lovingly pulling it off him. He almost regrets cancelling on Levy last Friday - simply being f*cked is nothing compared feigning romantic interest in a client.
Ezra practices his most beguiling expressions in the mirror, seducing himself and taking in his form while throwing his white feather boa around his neck. He knows he could slither his way into anyone’s pants or skirts - contingent, of course, on him maintaining a semblance of health.
Should he get too thin, his slenderness would no longer appear effortless and natural, reminding clients of his poverty - and Ezra is teetering dangerously close to that edge. Poverty stim-slim has an unmistakable tightness to it - skin taut over prominent joints, ribs and cheekbones revealing that the luxury he provides is, in fact, his own emergency. Only the deprived would want to f*ck an emergency, and indeed, there is no shortage of deprived clients.
—
After applying dark red lipstick and teasing his blond curls into lamb-like innocence, Ezra is ready for slaughter as he packs lube, a buttpl*g, ganja, stims and a change of underwear into his purse. With Beneš, arriving before zer to secure strategic positioning is paramount - preferably a seat near the bar, in flattering light, ensuring he's visible from the side. This position allows him to present himself most advantageously as Beneš makes zer entrance, for him to subtly arch his back in an alluring posture upon the barstool - Beneš will love it when he feigns joyful surprise at zer approaching him. Certain the evening's events will realign his circ*mstances, Ezra exits his flat as the benzo under his tongue finally begins to ease his nerves.
Riding a bus teeming with drunk and high passengers, Ezra staunchly holds back his tears against the window, not wanting to ruin his mascara. Arriving at The Time Traveller at 19:38, he presents his approved attendance code at the entrance before making his way to the bar, finding the spot with the most favorable lighting. From there, he orders a Long Island Iced Tea - the most calorie dense drink on the menu - asking for it to be added to Beneš’ tab.
