Chapter 177 - Cough
“Oh my god. So this is what he meant by choking,” I muttered under my breath. Because it was choking me, too. We stood there; Levi in a navy suit, me in a lighter blue that mirrored the sky outside. He even wore diamond cuff links. We’d groomed ourselves, each strand of hair in place, before stepping out the front door.
Two black vans idled at the curb, surrounded by a cluster of bodyguards. And here was the catch, the detail that made my jaw drop: one of the bodyguards was a doppelganger of Levi, and another wore contact lenses and a blonde wig, made to look like me. Body doubles. The vehicles were identical, making it impossible to differentiate which one held the real us. And these cars weren’t even taking us to the dreadful dinner. No, they were ferrying us to a private hangar, where we would board a private jet and simply leave the country.
“Gods, Levi… Why?” I whispered, the sheer absurdity of the situation finally sinking in as I settled into the seat of the black van. “Why all of this protocol?”
“Ugh,” he groaned as he buckled his seatbelt. “Paranoia of the government. Since it is the election day, there is quite the chaos, a perfect opportunity for terrorist cells and other organizations, and syndicates, to cause significant disruption. So, they designed this over-the-top protocol. We will be frisked regularly in the hotel, I assure you,” he explained, rolling his eyes with disdain.
“What the fuck? Is that also why we are leaving the country?” I asked, my voice rising in disbelief.
“Yes,” he replied simply, his gaze now fixed on the road ahead. “To be perfectly honest, a meeting with the highest order in a hotel? That presents a rather perfect opportunity for any hostile organization. They must be salivating at the prospect. I certainly would, were I a terrorist.”
“You offering consultation services to these ‘hostile organizations’ now, or just admiration?” I asked, trying to gauge if he was truly serious.
“Admiration? No. Please ask yourself this question, my dear: for a man who abolished monarchy and instilled a new governance, am I closer to a terrorist or a leader?” he inquired, his eyes fixed directly on my countenance. He… Gods. He is really a terrorist.
“You categorize everything else so neatly, Levi. Yet, with yourself, it’s always an either/or fallacy,” I said as the city lights blurred past the tinted windows.
“Apologies, dear, but labels really do not like to stick to me,” he replied, a smug smirk subtly etched on his lips.
“All this talk about terrorism and treason in a government-issued car… Gods,” I breathed out, the absurdity of the situation finally making me lightheaded.
“Details, details,” he murmured, waving his hand dismissively. “They are making me endure this charade, Raphael; they should be prepared for some small talk between husbands.”
This is small talk? For him… it must be. Talking about treason and terrorism, while sitting in a government vehicle protected by body doubles – that’s his version of casual banter. It’s almost... sweet that he considers this a normal conversation between us.
...
After the car ride, we reached the private hangar. Before we could even approach our designated aircraft, we were subjected to a thorough frisking by bodyguards, complete with handheld detectors. Levi was displeased, a subtle tightening around his eyes and jaw betraying his irritation. When a bodyguard leaned down to search his inner thigh, Levi leaned in.
“Like what you see, dear?”
Gods, this shameless man. But, yeah. What the fuck? We weren’t carrying bombs! What, were we going to just commandeer a private jet for kicks? Levi already owned one. This whole exercise felt utterly absurd.
“Careful, Levi. Your ‘small talk’ might get you frisked again,” I said, a chuckle bubbling up as my own bodyguard briefly grazed my… jewels. I should’ve been like Levi! I should’ve been so audacious, so utterly brazen, that they wouldn’t even dare to do this. He was being disgusting on purpose. He’s a wise, wise man.
Once we were inside the jet, which was undeniably luxurious and opulent to my eyes, we were served champagne. The bodyguards had retreated to the back of the cabin. With a lurch, we took off, the city lights below rapidly shrinking into a glittering tapestry.
“How long will this ride be?” I asked Levi, who was seated in the aisle section, granting me the full view of the city receding beneath us.
“An hour, my dear, so you can rest if you wish so,” he replied, taking a sip of his champagne. “Ugh, one would think the government would serve us at least a decent champagne when they so readily waste tax money on this rather cheap private jet,” he added, scrunching his nose.
I looked around the interior, the wood, the soft lighting, the undeniably luxurious seats. He’s probably already mentally calculating the cost-per-minute of his personal jet versus this ‘waste of tax money.’
“Levi, I know you are a noble kid with five centuries of broken lineage, but you are being such a snob, it makes me want to pinch that nose you just curled,” I said, a playful exasperation in my voice. “I mean… how rich are you, exactly?”
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“If you are asking for a total sum, Raphael, it is impossible for me to make that calculation right now, since wealth is not measured simply by quantifiable liquid assets,” he replied, placing his champagne flute down on the small table beside him. His gaze, clear and analytical, met mine. “Are you inquiring on a global scale or a national scale?”
He’s so obscenely wealthy that he needs me to define the scope of the question.
“I…” I blinked at his implication. “I don’t know… Global?”
“I am not even among the hundred wealthiest people on Earth, Raphael,” he replied, his voice completely even as he gestured vaguely with his hand. “The list is dominated by technology, car manufacturers, fashion retailers, energy providers, finance and investors, casino owners, and miners.” He paused, then added, with a subtle sigh, “Sadly, pharmaceuticals are not as profitable as others, even though it is, indeed, profitable.”
“I suppose the next goal is to disrupt the global economy until ‘pharmaceutical’ claims the top spot on your list?” I asked, a wry smile playing on my lips.
He chuckled. “That would be… suicidal, Raphael. I sell cough syrups and nose sprays for a living. To dominate a global economy with this? It would take decades. And, it would also require us to relocate to another country, since Ascaria is rather small when you compare her to her neighbors,” he replied, his gaze drifting to the city lights now far below us.
“Gods, you are acting as if you own only one pharmacy,” I said, a laugh escaping me.
“Quite obviously, Raphael, I do not only sell cough syrups,” he replied, a subtle amusement in his voice as he shrugged. “We also sell vaccines, opioids courtesy of the Aether Bloom and my slave-owning ancestors, and if we get bored, we release chapsticks in the winter. Sometimes Holden and Annie get bored, and we sell mouthwashes.”
“So, Holden and Annie’s boredom directly impacts the global market for oral hygiene?”
“They are my secretaries, Raphael, and I made them adrenaline junkies. After Holden exposed the former Minister of Health’s bribery and successfully incarcerated him? He gets bored consistently. So I need to make him content by putting a new packaging on the same formula of a lip balm or… what was the latest thing he wanted? Those sleeping bands one uses for breathing easier, yes, that one. He wanted them to be ‘colorless, ’” he explained, making air quotes with his fingers.
“My god, is that why he smokes cannabis, Levi?” I asked, the image of Holden, stoic and proper, smoking a blunt in our living room, clashing absurdly in my mind.
“Possibly, yes.”
“I mean… it is not something you expect from someone like him. To imagine the last living member of the fallen dynasty smoking a blunt in our living room, and he was so sad when he thought you were going to fire him, like a scolded dog,” I continued, the absurd image of Holden turning his back to Levi on the couch, like a marital dispute, a vivid memory I knew would never leave my brain.
“Addiction is addiction, Raphael, and as a former addict, allow me to provide a rather precise explanation: one seeks the rush, the high, or the low, and one successfully procures it,” he replied, his voice calm and utterly devoid of judgment. “There are countless research studies detailing how addiction is motivated by genetics, environment...” his voice trailing off as if listing known variables.
“Is it not a desperate way to… cope?” I replied, a slight tremor in my voice as I considered his explanation.
“Must everything be looked at from the perspective of suffering from your eyes, dear?” he inquired. “Things are simply things. Whether there is a trauma or a legitimate reason behind that does not change the fact of being an addict,” he stated, his gaze unwavering. “And you are a smoker, Raphael, you know it. You get nervous, and you seek the nicotine. Does your nervousness somehow make it more palatable?”
No, it doesn’t. It just is. My reasons don’t change the fact of the addiction or the craving.
“You always manage to strip away the emotional context, don’t you? Reducing everything to a biological imperative,” I replied, a hint of frustration in my voice as I waved a hand.
“Because emotions are also biological,” he retorted. He looked at me, then began listing, almost lecturing: “Trauma, genetic disposition, childhood, peer pressure, mental health, lack of support in that department… see, all of them are biological.”
Yes. Every feeling, every impulse, every memory ultimately has a chemical or neural basis. But he says it as if that strips away the meaning, the struggle, the humanity of it all.
“Look, you are looking from the broader perspective again, not the individual perspective,” I replied.
“Well, Raphael, then I understand,” he began, his voice dropping to a low cadence that seemed to fill the quiet cabin of the jet. “I, as an individual with neurodivergence, did not use drugs merely to get high; I used them to feel normal. To resemble a human. And I learned that this experience was… common for people of my nature. Do you recall how I would reply with discernible enthusiasm to your more open displays of affectation before I went to rehabilitation? And have you ever truly pondered why I am not the same person anymore? Why am I now more blunt, perhaps even rude, more touch and socially averse? Well, now you comprehend why. Because when my body purged the opioid you rather despise, it also took away the buffer.”
The enthusiasm — those fleeting glimpses of something softer — they were a side effect.
“So… intense displeasure to textures, and tastes… or people and your urges… I understand. You lost the crutch,” I said softly.
“Yes,” he replied, and for the first time, I detected a hint of vulnerability as he took a shaky breath. “Apologies for my outburst,” he murmured, turning his face slightly away from me.
“I assure you, Levi, I have endured far greater ‘outbursts’ from you. This is hardly noteworthy,” I said, trying to inject some levity.
“I do have a flair for the dramatic,” he replied, though a subtle expression flickered in his eyes.