The morning finally brought the return of my long-awaited voice acting lessons. Holden and Levi left the house at dawn for the company; I didn’t see them go, but Levi had definitely read my text because he offered no reply. Yeah, you dirty animal. What’s it feel like laying down on your own dried sweat and semen? A little revenge for that squirting incident.

Madam Evanthe, and I were in my studio, and we were deep in discussion about how I should practice more on my own.

“Raphael, your talent is undeniable, but it's like a magnificent garden that's only watered when I'm here,” Madam Evanthe declared. She gestured around my studio, soundproofed room cluttered with microphones, acoustic foam panels, and a stack of scripts. "We need to cultivate that garden daily. Think of your voice as a muscle. You wouldn't expect to build strength by only lifting weights once a week, would you?"

"I want you to dedicate at least two hours a day," she continued, her voice firm but encouraging, "to isolated practice. Work on your breath control, your vocal resonance, finding the specific colors in your voice for anger, for sorrow, for triumph. Don't just feel it, Raphael. Engineer it. Dissect it. Only then can you truly build a performance that is both authentic and consistently repeatable." She leaned forward, a conspiratorial glint in her eyes. "Think of it as refining your internal alchemy."

“Two hours a day?” I echoed, my eyebrows rising. It sounded like a daunting commitment, especially with Levi and his chaotic needs.

Madam Evanthe merely offered a knowing smile. "Consider it your secret laboratory, Raphael. A place where you can experiment without judgment. Play with accents, try different vocal textures for the same line. Whisper. Roar. Sing! The more you explore the boundaries of your own instrument, the more nuanced your performances will become. Remember, authenticity is about control. It's about being able to access that raw emotion and then shape it, consistently."

"I'll cultivate the garden daily, Madam Evanthe. Consider it a personal challenge." A sly smile touched my lips. If she only knew the raw material I had to work with yesterday. This might just be exactly what I needed to channel all that... experience.

Madam Evanthe’s smile widened, genuine expression of approval that made my chest puff out a little. "Excellent, Raphael. That's the attitude that separates the talented from the truly great." She gave a crisp nod. "Until next time, then."

I started a timer on my phone and began to work on my homework. Levi was a mad scientist, sometimes using our kitchen for making himself glowing-in-the-dark cookies. I could be one, too. Less chaotic, but still an outlet.

As my timer hit the one-hour mark, I took a break and brewed myself a soothing tea with honey. But that tranquil moment was shattered by the shrill ring of the front doorbell.

I opened the door to see four construction workers and a truck. Wait, what?

“Hello?” I said, feeling a prickle of confusion.

“This is the house of Levi Blake, yes?” the burly man in front asked, his voice gruff.

“Y-Yeah?” I replied, still a bit dazed. The grumbling man was quickly replaced by an impeccably dressed, younger man with sharp green eyes.

“Hi, sir. We arrived upon your residence on your request of installing a hot tub to your garden,” he said with a crisp smile. Oh… I completely forgot about that.

“Yes, come in,” I said, stepping aside and gesturing the workers inside.

They nodded, a few of them eyeing the pristine condition of the house. Tools clanked softly as they brought in what seemed to be a thousand feet of protective sheeting, unfurling it across the hallway floor.

"We'll need access through here to the rear, sir," he explained, pointing towards the back of the house on a digital blueprint. "We've got the crane arriving in about thirty minutes for the main unit, so we'll start prep work on the foundation area immediately."

I vaguely remembered a brief, mumbled conversation with Levi days ago about but my mind had clearly filtered out the specifics. A crane? This was going to be a morning.

"Right," I managed. "Just... try not to disturb anything sensitive. This house is... lived in."

I retreated into the makeshift studio, closing the door behind me, hoping the soundproofing would hold against the impending construction.

I tried to refocus on my voice acting exercises, but the vibrations through the floor and the thud of machinery made it difficult. I sighed, running a hand through my hair. This was going to be a very long day. At least it wasn't boring. My life with Levi rarely was.

I started with some breath control exercises, focusing on steadying my erratic thoughts along with my breath. Then, I moved into vocal resonance, letting my voice vibrate through my chest, trying to ground myself amidst the faint sounds of digging and hammering. I picked a monologue about a character dealing with unexpected upheaval, and began to speak, trying to let Levi's recent antics fuel the performance.

By late afternoon, the cacophony began to subside. The gurgle of water filling something large and new finally reached me through the soundproofing. When I emerged, blinking, into the twilight, the backyard was transformed. Where there had once been just lawn and overgrown bushes, a large hot tub now sat, bubbling invitingly. The construction crew was packing up.

"All done, sir. Fully installed and operational. Instructions are on the control panel." He handed me a tablet with a digital invoice. "Mr. Blake pre-paid for everything, of course."

"Of course," I muttered, shaking my head with a wry smile. I thanked the crew, who then departed, leaving behind a pristine backyard. He really did go all out, didn't he? The exhaustion of the day finally settled in. Perhaps a long, hot soak wasn't such a bad idea after all.

In the master bedroom, the new freestanding bathtub gleamed under the soft evening light. It looked incredibly tempting.

But the outdoor hot tub beckoned more strongly. There was something about being under the open sky, surrounded by the cool night air, that felt more suited to shedding the day's particular brand of chaos. I stripped off my clothes, leaving them in a heap, and grabbed a fresh towel.

I took a satisfied breath, the steam rising around me as I leaned back, my gaze fixed on the night sky. Since our house was far from the city's sprawl, there was no light pollution to hide the celestial tapestry above. The stars were sharp pinpricks of light against the black. Planets, bright and steady, hung like jewels. It was if I could almost reach out and touch them.

As I turned into a contented bubble, the back door slid open, and Levi entered the garden. He was in his house attire—a simple, dark shirt and soft trousers. "Ah, dear. I see that they installed the hot tub. I do hope you find it accommodating to your needs," he said, calmly assessing my state from a good three feet away from the tub's edge.

“It’s fucking amazing… We should’ve bought one ages ago,” I said, sprawling my arms out in the bubbling water. “So, you slept in your own sweat, pothead? Did your experiment on ‘cannabis’ end?”

Levi took a deep breath. “It required minutes of focused scrubbing to achieve a state of cleanliness before I could depart for work. Regarding cannabis, I do not possess a granular recall of every single conversation or minute detail, but I do distinctly remember the cognitive empathy, the heightened sensory perception, and a subtle, yet discernible, elation. The elation part was indeed amusing. I find myself open to experiencing it again.”

The audacity.

“No way you are experimenting again, Levi, you nearly suffocated me last night. And if you’re gonna get high, at least give me a heads up so I can lock myself in the bedroom,” I said, splashing a little water in exasperation.

“I do not remember doing that, the suffocating, but, indeed, if I determine to engage in such an activity again, I will inform you, dear.”

“Don’t remember? You threw your body at me, and crushed me under your weight, Levi! I had to pry myself away from your insistent rubbing, like a feral animal,” I retorted.

“Accept my apologies, it seems my state caused discomfort for you,” he said, his voice flat. “However, I must clarify: my objective in ‘throwing’ myself was not to inflict injury. It was to ensure proximity. I do recall the sensation, but not the individual acts themselves.”

“So you wanted to hold me close, and you chose to literally pin me under you?” I asked, disbelief coloring my tone.

“Raphael, I do not necessarily retain either the narrative or the precise chronological order of events from that state. But assuming my senses were heightened, and my desire was to indulge in sensations, including olfactory or tactile input, then, yes, my intent was to be close to you. However, again, I do apologize if I demonstrably breached any previously established open consent by my physical actions.”

This constant translation between his world and mine... It's frustrating, but at least he's acknowledging that his actions have consequences for me.

“It’s fine, nothing bad happened and you did not exactly betray my consent, you were just demanding and petulant. And you told me that you were slow at processing, so I can’t exactly blame you,” I said, waving my hand. “So, tell me about your day then, how was the low?” I asked, leaning back against the tub.

“I am glad nothing of consequence happened. And my morning was relatively suboptimal, Raphael, since it required minutes of focused scrubbing, then the subsequent struggle with the sluggish aftermath of cannabis. I also impacted my forehead on my car’s door, which was… not optimal. And I had, indeed, observed the photographic evidence you acquired of my rather ungraceful state, Raphael. I assure you, please be prepared for an equally ungraceful, and just as irresponsible, retribution.”

That glint in his eye… it’s not anger. It’s the gleam of a predator who's just found a new game to play. I'm looking forward to it, you bastard.

“Gods, you bonked your head on the door? You okay?” I asked, an unwanted chuckle escaping me. “And about retribution, you brute, you did not pay for the niceness rule deterrent. You have to consume an entire can of energy drink.” I said, a triumph smirk playing on my lips, fully enjoying his impending misery.

“Ugh…” he groaned. “I am alright. I applied an ice pack post-impact, although an employee of mine indeed witnessed that state, so I now assume my employees are currently engaged in a lengthy discussion regarding that… spectacle. And, I will proceed to acquire my deterrent. Is there anything you wish for me to procure from the kitchen?”

Ah, the mighty Levi Blake, brought low by a car door and the knowledge of his employees gossiping about him. That's a little dose of cosmic justice.

“Beer? Yes, definitely beer.” I said, and Levi disappeared from the back garden. The thought of the hot water against my skin combined with an ice-cold beer... After the chaos of those two days, I truly deserved that beer.

Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

Levi returned to the back garden, not entirely nude as I was, but clad in a dark swim trunk and a flowing silk robe. In one hand he held a can of energy drink, and in the other, two frosty beer bottles.

“Oh? Caveman attire, Levi? I thought you would go nude like me,” I said, gesturing at my own sprawled form.

“I will remove these garments. I simply do not derive pleasure from the application of cold air to my thighs and nether regions,” he said as he extended a beer bottle to me.

“For the deterrent, do enjoy the view of me consuming this disgusting, cloying, fizzy for no apparent reason, piss-adjacent and somehow viscous, revolting drink,” he said as he popped open the energy drink can. He closed his eyes for a bare second, took the first sip, and a full-body shudder ran through his frame. “Revolting,” he repeated, before taking another gulp, as if forcing down medicine.

“A true martyr for the cause of deterrents,” I said, and took a gulp of my beer. Ah. The taste. The sweet taste of revenge. “And you are acting like you are drinking actual piss.”

“I prefer drinking urine, Raphael, at least it is not artificial, or viscous, or carbonated. Why the viscosity? Why?” he growled, before taking another big gulp. I guess he was trying to drink it all down in one go. An entertained laugh bubbled

in my chest. Dramatic, magnificent lion, whining over a can of energy drink.

“I mean, you are a sweet tooth and energy drinks are at least twenty percent pure sugar, so why are you so resistant to it?” I asked, genuinely curious, tilting my head.

He took two big gulps in succession. Then he shook the can for me to hear he had finished the entirety of it. When I nodded, he placed the can between his two palms and crushed it into a perfect circle. Oops.

“Because it is… disgusting,” he said, a low growl emanating from his chest. “This is an abomination. There is neither logic nor reason to create a concoction like this. This is not only an assault on my taste buds, my palate, my teeth, and my throat and my stomach, it is an insult to consumers as a collective.”

The sheer, over-the-top drama of him. For a moment there, I almost forgot he was whining about a soda. He's such a magnificent, pedantic snob.

“Gods, you’re like a toddler throwing a fit over broccoli. Come now, soak your magnificent body in the hot tub. I literally turned into a raisin, you know? There are maps under my feet and palms,” I said, looking at my pruned palm.

Levi took his trunk and robe off, and with a grunt of pure disgust, threw the flattened can towards the garden. Gods, trashing the garden hours after it was just cleaned… Then he lowered his naked frame into the tub, the water barely rippling. After taking a visible sigh of relief, he took a sip of his beer. Levi drinking beer… Maybe he was trying to wash down the energy drink with a savory drink? Who knows what the brilliant mind of his decided.

I clinked my bottle to his. “Beer, Levi? Did bonking your head cause a revelation towards beer?”

“No,” he deadpanned. “Beer… is still undignified. Its flavor profile is: unacceptable but tolerable. I could tolerate it with greater ease when I was engaged in drug use; now, I am simply awaiting its passage down my throat. I merely concluded that introducing a scotch bottle into a hot tub environment would not be flattering.”

“I’m sure the other billionaires bring their fine whiskeys to their hot tubs. Don’t want to look uncouth, do we?” I said and took a sip of my delicious, undignified beer, reveling in its simple pleasure.

He waved his hand dismissively. “Do not remind me of the ‘parties’ of my acquaintances; each one is a distinct, brutal reminder of why I do not engage in such activities in my domicile. How many bodies can fit in a hot tub? I do not need to ask; I witnessed. Twelve, if the supposed people are sufficiently thin and willing to flex and contort their bodies, possibly risking physical injuries. And scotch and hot tub? Are they not… incompatible? Aside from the ‘aesthetic’ concerns, a burning sensation both from inside and outside? It is rather illogical to me.”

“Oh? Is this a glimpse of Levi Blake at the scandalous parties of billionaires? What do you mean by twelve bodies?” I asked, leaning forward slightly, genuinely intrigued.

He gave me a look that clearly conveyed, 'Are you truly certain you wish for this information?' then took a measured sip of his beer. “I meant sex workers, Raphael. What? Do you genuinely believe billionaires invite their associates for a purely recreational soaking of the tubs? Of course not. I was young, and at that juncture, I possessed insufficient social standing to reject such invitations, as I required capital investment for my company.”

I raised my eyebrow. “But you are such a feminist, how did you even, I don’t know, witnessed that and stopped yourself from sabotaging those people?”

“Yes, it truly did disgust me to witness that blatant abuse of power. However, to utter words about ‘consent, agency’ to those individuals? It would have been nothing less than addressing a brick wall. You are an actor, Raphael; you know better than anyone how some of your acquaintances and colleagues had to resort to such desperate methods to gain any type of acknowledgement from their agents, or directors, or producers. If you are inquiring about that particular party, I mostly confined myself to the bar area and engaged solely with individuals who initiated contact, primarily for the purpose of distributing my business card.”

“I mean… Our relationship also started with money, we were in a contractual relationship. Did you not also buy my consent? Or, my agency? And yeah, the industry is… filled with that,” I said, the bitter taste of truth on my tongue.

Levi took a slow sip of his beer, his gaze unwavering. “Raphael, are you perhaps experiencing selective amnesia? You never once indulged in my wealth during the duration of that contract. And I never initiated sexual contact with you during those months, though I do not deny the existence of physical contact between us. I never once prevented you from exercising your choices; you were always at liberty to act as you desired, and I dealt with numerous aftermaths resulting from your decisions. Furthermore, you departed from my residence for three months. Does this pattern of behavior suggest a lack of agency on your part? Once again, I do not deny the fact that I offered a financial incentive for the marriage itself, as I am not an individual capable of traditional romantic engagement, and I necessitated a husband to nullify my ducal responsibilities.”

He defines "agency" in its purest, most clinical sense, and by his own metric, I had it in spades. And it's undeniably difficult to argue with the cold, hard facts he just laid out, even if the emotional truth feels far more complicated.

“You make a compelling, albeit utterly soulless, argument. But just because I had agency doesn't mean it wasn't a deeply bizarre and complicated situation,” I said, remembering the early chaos of this contractual marriage — the galas, the dinners, dealing with the scrutiny of the now-fallen nobility.

Levi paused for a while, his gaze shifting slightly, a rare moment of something other than immediate retort. “Raphael, we both know that my actions caused distress to you. From my perspective, I did not expect a contractual husband, an actor, to… interfere this significantly with my life and my comprehensive plan. That was why I did not offer you particular details. When we had our initial discussion, you articulated that I possessed no right to enter into a marriage without fully disclosing my machinations regarding the dissolution of the nobility. I now concede, you were correct on that specific matter, Raphael. I should not have burdened you with the intricacies of my strategy. It was a profound error on my part.”

“Yeah? Thank you for saying that. I was scared and out of my depth. But, your expectation for me was also different, so I kinda understand why you wouldn’t tell your plan… I mean, the plan was to dissolve nobility…” I said, taking a hesitant sip of my beer, the foam tickling my upper lip. “But… I understand, about also what you mean when you said that I had my agency…”

Levi took a sip of his own beer. “I am glad that we reached an understanding.”

He leaned further into the tub, throwing his head back to gaze at the night sky, his expression softening as he watched the stars.

"The celestial bodies. They present an interesting study of predictability within a seemingly infinite chaos," he mused. "Their movements are governed by quantifiable laws. Gravitational forces, orbital mechanics... all entirely logical. There is a certain comfort in that absolute predictability. Simply cause and effect on a grand scale. Observe the Andromeda galaxy, for instance. A colossal structure, millions of light-years distant, yet its eventual collision course with our own galaxy is a mathematical certainty. A collision of such immense proportions, generating unimaginable energy, yet it will occur as predicted. There is no sentiment involved. No 'feelings' between galaxies. Just physics.”

“So, the ultimate solution to all our messy, human problems is to just become galaxies? No feelings, just inevitable collisions and physics?” I grumbled, knowing full well Levi’s brand of nihilism. He finds comfort in the indifference of the universe. The universe doesn’t care. It just doesn’t. Just like him.

“We are stardust, Raphael. Our carbon atoms were carried by asteroids and stars colliding with this planet.”

He sees us as an amalgamation of ancient cosmic dust, and I see us as... Levi and Raphael, in a hot tub, under those same indifferent stars, trying to figure out how to exist together. It's peaceful, in a way. If you can just accept that he doesn't care, and that's okay, because that's just how he is.

“You find comfort in the indifferent scale of the universe, and I find comfort in this ice-cold beer and the fact that you’re stuck here with me,” I said, lifting my bottle slightly in a toast.

“What makes you think I do not find comfort in your presence?”

The silent, indifferent universe and then… me.

“You’re looking at the galaxy, Levi, not at me. It’s a fair assumption.”

“I… miss my father.”

“Y-You do?”

“Not exactly the grief you might imagine. My grief is different than yours. It’s… annoyance, frustration… Because I can not ever talk to him ever again. I wish I could, though.”

“I understand that. Losing someone you can’t talk to anymore, that connection just… gone. It’s tough, even if it feels different for you.”

“Oh?” he mused, a faint hint of surprise. “I assumed you would immediately inquire if I would cry at your funeral. The answer to your implied question, Raphael, is that I did not cry at my father’s and sister’s funerals, and I will not cry at yours. However, I would experience the sadness, frustration, and annoyance of your loss. So, here you go.”

Of course, he knew I was thinking it.

“Lack of tears is noted. But a guarantee of frustration? I’ll take it. It’s certainly a unique legacy.”

“Mind you, Raphael,” he said, his voice dropping slightly, "I once observed you weeping at a refrigerator commercial about vegetables finding their homes. Therefore, if you do not exhibit similar emotional distress at my funeral, I would be compelled to manifest as a vengeful entity and actively haunt you. That is not a threat but a promise.”

“My god, will I ever live that down? I got emotional, okay? And, yeah, I will weep at your funeral, tears and snots. Don’t worry about that,” I grumbled, splashing a little water in mock exasperation.

“I tried to learn how to cry, repeatedly, but I never achieved a single tear. It would undoubtedly be perfect ammunition for my manipulations, but alas…”

Gods, he's insufferable. And yet… there's something so profoundly honest in his lack of pretense. He doesn't try to be something he's not, not even for me.

“First of all, genius, do you think every single actor cries, for real? No, there are menthol balms for that. Second, why are you so fucking honest to me? It sometimes chills me, you know?” I said, my voice dropping, the light banter fading as genuine curiosity— and a touch of apprehension —crept in.

He finally looked at me, his eyes holding a raw stillness. “Thank you for the menthol balm suggestion, Raphael; I will certainly utilize that if I find it necessary. And… it is like a boulder lifting off my shoulder, sometimes. Obviously, I thoroughly enjoy you flinching away from my villainy—it is indeed amusing—but it is… comforting, in a way. Just being. To you. With you.”

“Just being. To me. With me. Don't make me get emotional again, you'll make me cry about the hot tub. A boulder lifted, because you get to be your true, villainous self without pretense. I suppose that’s… your version of a happy ending,” I said, a genuine smile touching my lips.

“I suppose… We both decided to take necessary steps to build our rather fractured relationship when you discovered that I was a drug addict and broke my ribs by repeatedly kicking me while I was in a near-fatal overdose,” he said, a slow smirk spreading across his face, his eyes gleaming. “And, according to other neurodivergent people’s experiences with their intimate circle, they all found a comfort about explaining their true self. Obviously, an intimate circle is either life-long friends, which is rare in retrospect, or spouses, maybe close family members. I… find that comfort, too.”

“My attempts to save your life and your subsequent fractured bones—our origin story. And here I thought it was just trauma bonding,” I said, relishing in the dark humor that only someone like Levi could appreciate.

“Hm…” he mused, a low sound in his chest. “Oh, I am definitely traumatized. Do you wish me to recount the events? I injected myself with a potent drug, then pressed a knife down my throat. You discovered me, then punched me, breaking my lip. When I fell down, you kicked me, which resulted in two fractures. Then, in a moment of utter audacity, you bound and gagged me with the rope and leather we used as sex toys, which then you and Julia, my ex-wife, threw me into the trunk of her car.”

The smirk on his face grew wider, almost joyful.

“You’re really going for the trauma re-enactment, aren’t you? Missing anything from that charming little anecdote, or was that the full director’s cut? Also, I am sorry for breaking your ribs, and I am sorry about severing contact at the rehab. Both of them were selfish, impulsive, and I regret them, so much.”

“Oh? I was going to ask you perhaps you were experiencing selective amnesia again, but you did remember to apologize. How… smart.”

That little bastard.

“What? Couldn’t get what you wanted?” I said with a challenging smirk, taking a sip of my beer, the fizz tickling my nose.

“I always do. Do not even dare to tempt me. I might get… unconventional.”