BUSHWICK COLLECTIVE — BROOKLYN, NY
TWO DAYS LATER — 7 FEBRUARY 2035
A young boy, riding an old bike, held a letter in his right hand.
“Stormy?” the teen shouted as he entered the cosy coffee shop hidden in a Brooklyn alleyway.
Nathan looked around, hoping no one else would raise their hand. Only one person called him by that name.
“Stormy?” the boy repeated, calling loudly over the indy music playing in the background.
This time Nathan answered the call. “Yes?”
The teen smiled all quirky. “Ah, yeah, he said your hair was on fire. I was confused ’til now.”
The boy handed him the note, and Nathan raised his smart ring to tip him.
“Thank you kindly,” Nathan said.
The youngster shook his head. “I got plenty already,” the teen said before leaving.
A perfect calligraphy confirmed the source of the message. The handwriting was as unique as its author. It merely said, Meet me at Sinatra Park after work? No smart contacts or devices. —T.
Nathan took off his apron and asked his boss to leave early. He couldn’t wait, he couldn’t think, and he could barely breathe. Opening one of the kitchen drawers, he pulled up a pair of scissors, heading to the bathroom to trim his overgrown beard in front of the small, rusty mirror hanging from the exposed brick wall. He washed his face and ran his fingers through his long flat hair, turning his head upside down until the tips reached the wooden floor. His flaming hair blending in perfectly with the cherry wood. Flicking his hair back, he glanced at the mirror one last time. The light of his life was back, and even before he saw Tom, he was terrified of losing him again.
Nathan put on his third-hand wool coat and then wrapped his upcycled flowery scarf around his neck, leaving half his hair tucked in for extra warmth. He picked up his fedora hat from the wooden rack standing right by the door before he left the coffee shop for the fastway on his way to Hoboken.
His hands trembled, and his lips were dry, craving his longtime foe—a friend to take off the edge. He stared at the nearest bar entrance, but he thought of Tom, and against the odds, he gathered the strength to move along quickly.
Nathan knew he was an addict. These days, he embraced the excesses life offered to numb his oversensitive temper. Still, he remembered the time where he looked for the opposite out of mind-altering substances, a time when he sought to enhance his experience of the world, when he drank to feel inspired and creative. Of all the drugs Nathan had experienced, none was as addictive and as stimulating as the exquisite Thomas Quincy Astley-Byron and his relentless idealism.
Tom’s sunshine was a product of privileged love, where confidence in one’s future is a given, and top education the rocket fuel toward the stars. The sweetheart wasn’t to blame for any of his privileges—the looks, the motherly love, the money, the schools, or his ancestors’ sins. To hate him was an impossibility.
His beauty was a precious thing to be kept safely behind a bulletproof glass shield in a Parisian museum. But it was his golden heart that was the most treasured of his gifts. That same heart made him as fragile as a Renaissance painting exposed to wild weather.
Tom had been Nathan’s obsession from the moment their eyes met at the Albertine. He was the most potent and benign mind-altering substance ever to walk the face of the Earth. A giddy Tom, bursting with excitement, could talk for hours, using his hands and fingers to paint the air with the images that lit up his eyes.
Nathan had spent an eternity just watching and listening to his love, returning eye contact and reassuring smiles. An eternity that felt like a priceless second, a flash of spring in the winter of life. He had walked by Tom’s side, supporting him in all his dreams and plans, until he failed to travel with his sunshine on the one road that had made all the difference.
Nathan found him, frozen in time, leaning against the fence by the Hudson River. Little had changed in eight years. He wore the same black leather jacket, white tee, jeans, and old boots. His hair was longer, and a slight five o’clock shadow had replaced his scruffy stubble, but apart from that, it was like eight days had passed since that horrible day at the Albertine.
Tom raised his hand and waved, his face even paler than before, and as Nathan got closer, he discovered the dark circles under his love’s eyes. He wrapped his body around Tom’s body and pressed their cheeks together.
“Tom, you’re freezing.”
“I’m good.” Tom jerked and took a step back. After a moment, he leaned in to return the embrace. The tentative hug—warm and friendly—lacked the intense commitment that had become Tom’s distinct trademark. “Thank you for coming all the way to Hoboken.” He spoke with cautious politeness. “I’m sorry—”
“Tom, you look and feel like the ghost of Christmas past.” Nathan unwrapped his scarf and placed it around Tom’s neck.
“I’m good. You don’t need to—”
“Have you been living inside a pod? You’re transparent.” Nathan scolded, placing his hand on the scarf and stopping Tom from giving it back. A pinch of ruddiness in Tom’s cheeks reassured his affection was well received.
“Walk with me?” Tom said, hinting a wary smile.
They walked up the river following Frank Sinatra Drive, enjoying the community’s vegetable gardens and the street performers. Noisy kid- and pet-friendly spaces enhanced the joyful commotion of the area. Nearby, senior citizens gathered around heated round tables, playing board games and exchanging stories. The cities had changed with the end of car ownership and the rationing of many forms of personal motorized transportation. Places had been redesigned for the use of fauna, flora, and pedestrians.
Tom walked as if he was seeing the world for the first time. His gaze held a mix of surprise and conflict Nathan failed to understand.
Nathan tried to capture Tom’s attention. “So, you came to town?”
Tom kept his eyes away from Nathan’s. “Yeah, something came up.”
“And what was that?” he asked, even when he already knew the answer.
Nathan, and the entire world, had heard of the girl’s death. The endless media coverage was impossible to ignore. No one blamed Down Below for the incident, but he knew Tom well enough to understand he’d feel responsible for such a violent event Up Above.
Nathan was particularly troubled when he recognized both the abuser and the young woman who had survived the attack. He didn’t know they were related. After being wrongly identified as Rosa Johnson, she was later named Rosa García, a Latino athlete that had been a fan of his work. She’d written to him soon after winning her first Olympic medal.
Back then, when the world was grim, she shared his conviction that revolution was required if they were to take back the planet from the brink of destruction. In her message, she’d written, You voice the rage inside my head, and you speak the anger that thrusts me across the finish line, but medals were never my end game. We’ll need a bloody revolution to turn things around, and I know you’ll lead it, someday. On the day you march into battle, I’ll be by your side, in the front lines, as your trusted lieutenant. My name is Rosa García, a soldier, and I’ll be nature’s thorn. He had cried as he read her words. She represented millions of desperate kids that had listened to his work. He never called for blood or violence, but he had incited a much needed rebellion against toxic power structures.
It turned out the successful leader of the revolution hadn’t been Nathan but Tom and his humanoid friend. No blood had been spilled, and no pitchforks had been raised. A different type of extinction emerged—the end of violence, rage, anger, hate, and despair. Nathan’s words became museum heirlooms, buried forever in history books. Tom showed them all a different way, and Nathan never resented him, even when he knew his optimism and resourcefulness were cultivated by tremendous fortune—an unreasonable birthright inaccessible to Nathan and to the ones who had followed him. To the least fortunate, civil unrest was the only resource available.
When Tom finally spoke, he changed the conversation. “Hey!” he hunched over as a Dalmatian puppy came running in his direction. “May I pet her?” he asked the young owner who sprinted after the pup.
“Sure.” The boy skipped toward Tom with excitement, entirely taken by his sunny smile and large, friendly eyes.
Everything had changed, and nothing had changed. Tom loved animals and children, and any trip to the park would involve a series of stops as Tom and a variety of creatures engaged in playful interaction. The spotted pup wagged her tail and licked his face with nervous excitement as he wrapped his hands around her, tickling gently.
“What’s her name?” Tom asked. Still scrunched up, he stood just an inch taller than the tween boy.
“Daisy,” the kid announced, standing on the tips of his toes. “She likes you a lot.” The boy tapped on Tom’s cheek, and Nathan couldn’t help but smile.
“We all do.” Nathan grazed his fingers through Tom’s hair.
Tom’s shoulders dropped, relaxing, and Nathan was grateful he hadn’t lost his touch.
Tom handed Daisy back to her owner, smiling. “A fine flower; it suits her.”
The boy raced back to her family with the pup in his arms. As Tom got up, Nathan spotted tears in his eyes. He grabbed Tom by the waist and pulled him closer. They stood nose-to-nose.
“Are you going to tell me what’s going on?”
Tom shook his head, and then he mumbled awkwardly, “Can— Will you…”
“What, sweetheart? What?” Nathan pulled back slightly to look into Tom’s eyes, but his love lowered his head and sank it in the side of Nathan’s neck. He embraced Tom and kissed his hair.
“I have no right to ask…” Tom whispered. “Stay with me for a few hours, please?” It was a beggar’s plea—humble and full of regret.
“Of course I will.” I’ll stay with you for the rest of our lives, if you let me.
They walked in silence for about five minutes. Nathan gathered the courage to hold Tom’s hand. It was frozen and red, and so he kissed it. The last time Tom had looked this devastated was after his parents' death. During those awful months, Tom wouldn’t sit down. He wouldn’t stop working, and he certainly wouldn’t tell anybody he was struggling. Nathan had to take over and save Tom from himself. It was the only period in their relationship where Nathan took complete charge over Tom’s life, forcing him to slow down, eat, share his grief, accept love, and heal.
Instinctively, Nathan moved his thumb up Tom’s wrist until it pushed against a Band-Aid. Devastated, he felt the tiny cuts on his own skin, Tom’s way to cope with unbearable sadness. As the sun started to set and Manhattan lit up beside them, Nathan used his fingers to lift Tom’s chin, met his eyes, and spoke in a firm, reassuring tone. “Take me home.”
Tom’s condo wasn’t far at all. As they walked through the door, Tom took Nathan’s coat and hat and disappeared to the kitchen to make him a hot cup of tea.
Nathan knew all too well no words would soothe Tom’s state of heart; he needed to be loved and cared for. Nathan would kiss the fragile ruler of two worlds until he felt safe to break down in his arms, but he wouldn’t move without permission. Tom had to trust him enough to come to him.
From the day they met, he never let Tom do anything out of pity or pressure. It was that trust, never broken or abused, that, in moments of great passion or overwhelming loss, allowed Tom to fully abandon his body and mind to Nathan’s care.
Nathan walked to the pristine grand piano standing in the room’s corner, by the window. As his fingers grazed its keys, he remembered he had the key to Tom’s heart. He knew a way to stimulate his love’s senses with a few memorable notes.
As Tom sat beside him, Nathan placed one arm around his shoulders while, with the other hand, he played a few bars of an old song. It was the intro of “Keating’s Triumph,” the Dead Poets Society track that had played in the background as the boys stood on their desks, honoring their teacher—their Captain—a man unfairly blamed and fired for the suicide of a student.
And that’s all it took. Tom broke down, sobbing. Surprisingly, it was shame that emerged on his face, a pang of guilt whose origin Nathan could guess.
Tom held his face and kissed his lips as if he was tasting the sweet nectar of a delicate flower.
“I failed. I failed them all. I was reckless to take on something I didn’t understand.” Tom’s head dropped. It was heavy, as if it held the weight of the digital world he’d imagined. His hand trembled as he massaged his thigh up and down, a form of self-soothing. “You—you warned me, and I didn’t listen.”
“There’s no goal, yardstick, or trial where you and your work can ever be marked as a failure. You have unequivocally improved everything that matters—fairness, equality, the joy, the health, the wellbeing of all living things.” As Nathan spoke, Tom’s eyes dismissed his praise as if the words spoken had turned into sharp barbs piercing his flesh.
“Living things…” he repeated, shaking his head.
“The death of a child is unfortunate, but you’ve saved thousands if not millions of kids.”
Tom wouldn’t receive the praise. His fingers squeezed his own leg as if he wanted to rip it apart. Nathan reached down to grab his hand, bringing it up to his lips and kissing it.
“I’m glad the older sister killed that sonofa—” Nathan shook his head, bit his lip, and changed his tone. “Thomas, look at me.” He met his love’s eyes and smiled. “You can’t rehabilitate every single creep in the world.”
“You once scrutinized the world’s most powerful people and judged them sharply.” Tom spoke somberly. “I need you to do the same now.”
“Judge who?” Nathan asked, confused.
“Me, Down Below, its effects Up Above.” Tom’s eyes begged for something Nathan couldn’t deliver.
“I just did; you refused to accept it.” Nathan placed his hands on Tom’s face, forcing him to look into his eyes. “You put me out of a job, sweetheart. You’re that good.”
“You have no concerns? No fears?” Tom pressed. “I—I’ve created a manipulation machine.”
Nathan took his time to ponder on Tom’s question. “I’m terrified of what it’s doing to you.” And, before Tom could dismiss him, Nathan put it in terms he would understand. “I have nightmares of what would happen if you weren’t in charge of it.”
“What if I’m the problem?”
“An impossibility. You’re the moral heartbeat of the thing. That’s why it works.”
Tom shook his head as Nathan knew he would, and then he asked, “What else?”
“I’d rather the fate of the world was in the hands of many humans, not just two, but your achievements nullify my objection.”
“We’ll get there, but humans are—are…”
“Trash? Evil?” Nathan guessed, and Tom didn’t object. “Yeah, I used to feel like that, but now I live in a world filled with love, because of you. And you need to live in it too.” Before Tom got the chance to shake his head, Nathan said, “You taught me to have faith in humans. Your optimism and inventiveness changed the world, and I won’t let you lose them. We are all relying on you.”
“We work so hard to make everything better…but darkness keeps coming back, out of nowhere… In ways I didn’t expect.” A great terror haunted Tom’s eyes, and Nathan pulled him closer and embraced him.
Why are you feeling so defeated? Tom’s bright, progressive sensibility had been ahead of the times in the way it made sense of the mind-crushing chaos of the early ’20s. Sparked by his unshakable hope, he’d created radical solutions to impossible problems. Optimism was at the core of Tom’s identity and craft, and without it, he was lost.
“The hero emerges when all is lost and dark,” Nate said. “The adversity shapes him…her. You of all people should know this. You’ve created a shadow-integration machine—a hero-making game.”
Tom shook his head. “I thought I understood it—the formula, and that it was…stable. We had achieved the perfect balance between adversity and learning, but now it’s—it’s falling apart in catastrophic ways… I can’t fix it. I don’t know how.”
Nathan grabbed Tom’s shoulders and shook him. “You can’t say that. The words you speak matter, remember? They shape your view of the world and creep into everything you create or destroy. You told me that. What are you doing? I won’t let life defeat you—not you.”
As Nathan pulled and pushed Tom’s body, an old heirloom jumped from under his T-shirt to dangle in the middle of his chest, just above his heart. Nathan held his breath and goosebumps rose all over his body. Speechless, he stared at the proof he’d never been forgotten or discarded; at a minimum, he was family, but he hoped he was more. He placed his hand over the medal and tried to speak. “This…”
“My most precious possession.” Tom held Nathan’s hand, and it felt like home.
“You—you really mean that?” Nathan asked, shaken.
“How can you doubt it?”
The surprise and sincerity in Tom’s tone left Nathan even more confused.
“You. Left.”
“You assaulted Harry. I was upset and overwhelmed… I just had to leave, and it felt like an amputation.”
“You disappeared from the face of the Earth.”
“And then the…platform took over my life.”
Tom’s breath caught as he spoke, emotion tightening his chest. Nathan leaned over, eyes locked on Tom’s lips. At the last moment, he shifted to kiss the skin by the corner of his love’s mouth. Tom returned a coy smile and then brushed Nathan’s forehead and hair.
They were tethered to each other, both made of pure instinct—the magic that connected them in ways science couldn’t explain.
“Tom, when—when I gave you this token, you accepted the love, but you told me it was the symbol of a bad story. You were adamant about it, and you were right. It’s a dreadful story. Have you forgotten it?”
“It’s a terrible story, a story created to keep Und—umm, people numb and subdued, to make them accept things they shouldn’t accept.”
“The point is not the suffering. It’s overcoming it. Remember, darling?”
“I’m trying. I am.”
“Tom, you are drowning in pain. I can see it; anyone can. Don’t waste away by willingly waltzing with sorrow.”
“I needed to do it, to create the contrast. Down Below wouldn’t be effective without it.”
“So, you did it. Stop it, come back…come back…” Nathan implored.
Unlike most humans, Tom’s instinct didn’t fall back to survival but to love. He cared too much, and it was killing him.
“It’s not that simple,” Tom said.
“Come back to me. Let me love you?”
Tom got closer, caressed Nathan’s freshly trimmed beard with the backs of his fingers, and then tasted his lips. Nathan’s entire body ached with desire, and he held Tom’s face, grazing his thumb over his mouth.
Unexpectedly, Tom jerked, and then he stood up and walked to the window.
Nathan’s heart dropped to his feet. “Have I done something wrong?”
He walked toward Tom, standing behind him but leaving some distance between them. Tom’s hands trembled at the sides of his body, and so Tom raised them over his chest, attempting to stop the movement.
“No. No, you haven’t. I’m sorry.” Tom turned around, closed the gap between them, and wrapped his arms around him, and this time, Nathan recognized that wholehearted hug.
“Love,” Nate said. “Your face. You’re freezing.”
Tom bit his blue lips. “No, I’m hot. I’m burning…burning.”
“I can feel your heart pounding in your chest. What’s going on?” Nathan recognized the signs of severe trauma. “Did someone hurt you?” His jaw tightened.
“No. Of course not. It’s all self-inflicted.” Tom’s teeth chattered as he smiled. “Kiss me, please. Please make it all go away.”
“Come, let’s talk…” Nathan pointed to the sofa. “I need to understand—”
“No. I can’t talk— Think. I don’t want to think. I want it to end—the thinking.” Tom held Nathan’s face and kissed him frantically.
Nathan pulled back, breathless. “Are you sure you want this?”
“This is all I want.”
Nathan went deeper to explore Tom’s mouth. He made love to Tom for hours, relentlessly working to erase all bad memories and replace them with pure pleasure. In turn, he was loved, and he was worshiped with the same passion and intensity he remembered from their first night in his small studio flat. Nathan cherished the way they competed to give the other pleasure. A well-matched tennis game—serve and return, serve and return—all winners, no losers.
When Tom finally collapsed in his arms in utter exhaustion, Nathan took a deep breath, knowing at least tonight, some of Tom’s pain was gone.