Oh. That hadn't been said for nothing. Denzel knew perfectly well that Luchador intended to become what he called a "True Performer™" — staging pranks and crowd work with the audience right during theatrical performances, completely ignoring the written lines. For that, he'd still need to come to terms with the director, but Pixie firmly believed that a bill slipped into a pocket would resolve any issue.
"Why would he even need a film crew? He's not shooting a blockbuster, just himself interacting with the audience. Although who knows what's going on with the logical chains in this fool's head… they've probably gone on vacation somewhere even farther away than Morocco."
Denzel's suspicions were confirmed, as Pixie stubbed out his cigarette in a flash, jumped up, and once again loomed over his brother, ready to tear and rage:
- Those little people thanks to whom I — and unfortunately you — came into this world (read: our parents) actually spoke on the phone this morning. And guess what?
They decided to make us a huge cash transfer to demonstrate their "sincere love." Supposedly, they're involved in our lives and haven't forgotten about us… even though all that remains in their memory is cheap booze. Or maybe that's just my memory. Doesn't matter.
Either way, that sum is now going toward developing me as a media personality. So be happy for me and take a look at this.
If triumph were a person, it would exist exclusively in Luchador's embodiment. Snatching his smartphone from his pocket, he quickly opened his banking app and, with a loud exclamation, shoved the screen in Denzel's face:
- Look and rejoice. All that money is now mine.
On the screen stood a proud number: zero. Still a number, right?
Denzel's only functioning pinky stretched toward the call cord to ring it and alert his younger brother about this and… he changed his mind.
Especially since, even without Denzel, there was already someone perfectly capable of striking Luchador down on the spot.
The whistling on the couch abruptly stopped, and the air charged with Grandpa's booming, resonant voice:
— Ambition only gets along with a man when money gets along with him. And you, grandson, are left with the first — while you can say goodbye to the second.
Pixie's face froze for a moment. Then he slowly brought the phone closer to his eyes, and after that his palm began to shake with a violent tremor. Grandpa, meanwhile, rolled onto his side, scratched his heel, and grabbed a wet wipe from the table to clean a small stain on his track pants. All the while, he calmly explained:
— You're not the only one who knows how to use a phone, grandson. My own son called me first — as the senior man in this house — so I found out about the account refill long before you did. And I immediately transferred the money to myself, "into the cashbox."
— What?! That's unthinkable!
Pixie covered his eyes with one hand and clutched his heart.
— Alright, spare me the theatrics. If your conscience is silent, then your heart is cold and doesn't answer its owner. And you, grandson, seem to have forgotten that besides my pension and Denzel's disability allowance, we simply have no other sources of income.
— But how can…?!
— You mean those pennies they pay you for playing a mute toilet?
The head of the family squinted.
— Don't you dare slander me like that!
The theatrical figure stamped his foot.
— It was a boudoir! Besides, it was one of my very first roles. I'm only just beginning my thorny path.
— Yes, yes. Alright.
Grandpa waved it off.
— In any case, we need to eat, pay the bills, buy medicine for your brother and me, and most importantly — we need a caregiver for Denzel. Or, if you prefer, you can become one yourself.
"Wow, a whole pantomime unfolding here. Just look at how he's twisting himself inside out," Denzel observed as his brother ran from one corner of the room to the other.
Pixie raged, tore at his hair, and even tried to do a flip once. But quickly realizing that he wasn't in the right physical condition, he froze halfway through the stunt. He stood up, brushed himself off, and blurted out:
— You're retired yourself, so you can watch him around the clock.
Grandpa had already made a move with the queen and now flipped the board, playing for the second participant, eyeing the knight. So he replied dryly:
— No. I'm lazy. Besides, I've already found a specialist.
"How does he manage all this while lying on the couch?" Denzel asked himself.
— When did you even have time?!
Pixie joined that unspoken question.
Grandpa yawned and turned up the TV volume, delivering the final line of the dialogue:
— It's the 21st century, grandson. I found a suitable candidate online. A real professional, a golden human being. She should arrive any minute now. Oh — that must be her.
There was indeed a ring at the front door.
— Go open it for her, show her to Denzel, and after that she'll know what to do herself, because skill born of talent brings…
The ending was lost, as the winged phrase perished, dissolving into the sweet sleep of the dozing stoic philosopher.
In the total silence, broken only by Grandpa's snoring, Pixie — pale from the pressure of his rage — went to open the door. His wooden gait betrayed how hard he was restraining himself from running into the yard, climbing his favorite tree, and crying there without end.
"Things are unfolding way too fast. Thank God Grandpa, unlike my reckless brother, kept a sober view of the world and didn't let all the money be wasted. But a caregiver… why spend money on her? How awkward that enormous sums have to be sunk into me, and I can't repay my old man in any way… damn it!
And on top of that, this woman from the Internet… what will she be like? I haven't seen anyone except those two for a very long time, and honestly, I'm shaking inside at the thought of having to interact with a new person. At least I won't have to keep up a conversation."
Denzel finished gloomily, and a couple of tears rolled down his cheek. Unconsciously. Not exactly out of self-pity. More like anger that blind fate had landed on him.
No, he didn't want someone else to take his place. He hated the very idea that this illness existed at all — and that there was still no cure for it. Something like that.
Meanwhile, two people entered the living room. Tall and thin, Pixie looked garish next to the small, fragile woman with a long braid reaching the middle of her back. Her face expressed nothing. Empty and absolutely unreadable. No sorrow, no joy, no pity.
Just a face.
"And that suits me best of all, because it's proportionate and matches my own. Only mine is due to physiological deviations, and hers — because it's obvious she's not living her best life. And she doesn't pity me. She simply doesn't give a damn. She came to do her job. And if she's good at it, then we'll get along just fine."
Pixie tried to pull her into a long-winded conversation, but she gestured that she didn't need help. He swallowed the lump in his throat, pulled out his phone, and started a stream for his one and only subscriber — Vanilla, who for some reason was still friends with him. He immediately went out into the yard to retell her the plot of his favorite Hamlet webtoon.
— Kasta. And you are Denzel.
The woman introduced herself almost inaudibly.
That was the introduction.
After which she added:
— I'll make the schedule myself. You'll be satisfied, sir.
She had been repeating that phrase for a week now, and Denzel truly had nothing to complain about. She cooked well, fed him properly without spilling a single drop, cleaned, washed him, and did much more besides.
And she always slipped the headphones into his ears the moment his eyes moved downward. Kasta didn't read his mind, but she really did give the impression of a true master of her craft. Grandpa had been right.
And now, a satisfied Denzel was listening to his favorite podcast about celestial phenomena. How he loved lightning! All those sprites, St. Elmo's fire, linear strikes, and especially ball lightning — still completely unexplored, which irritated him greatly. Everything that can't yet be identified, cataloged, and turned into experience equals minus progress.
"And if scientists can't manage something, that means the process of finding a cure for me is stalled too."
Denzel grew sad and asked the ever-vigilant caregiver with his eyes to remove the headphones.
She, in general, fulfilled and overfulfilled the plan of every imaginable and unimaginable task. When she wasn't cooking or cleaning, she sat and watched her ward without looking away, ready to fulfill any request. It looked eerie, but Denzel didn't complain because, unfortunately for himself, he understood that he needed attention.
"Now I can finally feel like a Prima Donna myself."
Denzel smiled sadly at the irony of fate. His younger brother, who had so persistently tried to wear that image, hadn't shown up at home for a week, most likely spending the nights at Vanilla's place.
— His desire is to disappear from this life for a while. Yours is to start living again. Thanks to Kasta for helping you with that.
Grandpa stated this and tossed a sock at the screen. At that very moment, his least favorite politician was speaking there, and the elector was, as always, aiming straight for his face — unfortunately for himself, missing every single time.
"If only someone hung up a target there, so the old man could score a perfect ten right on that guy's nose every time."
Lost in these thoughts, Denzel was caught off guard by Kasta's hesitant cough. The caregiver was clearly trying to get his attention. Surprised, he shifted his pupils toward her visibly anxious face. Showing emotions in public wasn't her thing, and all the more surprising was what she said next:
— I have a daughter. She's lonely. May I introduce her to you?
Frightened thoughts rushed through Denzel's mind, each fighting to become the main one. In the end, they tangled into such a tight knot that they rolled away somewhere, and without thinking, he blinked three times — which meant:
"Of course, yes!"
The woman didn't show that she was pleased. She simply rose in silence and went off to make soup.
And the next day, she arrived at the house not alone.
She was pushing a wheelchair in which a powerfully built girl sat frozen, clearly someone who had once been into sports. Her arms were covered in tattoos, and on her rough, haughty face there were, strangely enough, rather cute dimples — completely out of sync with the overall concept of her appearance.
"Why are her eyes so bright? Wow! They're not emeralds, of course, but close in color. Or even brighter!"
The girl's hair, unlike Denzel's long mane, was quite short and didn't reach her shoulders. When she came closer with her mother's help, he noticed very early gray strands in it.
"Yeah… we've both been through a lot."
Her vehicle stopped directly opposite his, and the scene vividly reminded Denzel of some absurd version of a cheap western.
"Only we have call bells instead of holsters."
And then the girl, whom Kasta introduced as SeaAsia, raised her left hand and waved. Friendly. Open. Warm.
"Oh! She can control a whole arm. It's nice to see that the illness didn't break her completely. And now it's clear why Kasta has such an emotionless face. She's clearly seen enough of her daughter and unconsciously started mirroring her, just to make her life at least a little more comfortable. What a wonderful mother!"
Denzel thought with warmth and a hint of gentle envy.
They sat like that for about ten minutes, simply looking at each other. Then SeaAsia's mother took a large — simply enormous — notebook out of a bag and placed it on her daughter's lap. Next, she handed her a pen, and SeaAsia immediately began writing something. What exactly, Denzel couldn't see.
He was distracted by Grandpa's not entirely appropriate munching. Grandpa was dealing with a portion of cheese balls and was even lining one up for a throw, clearly waiting for that ever-present politician to appear on the screen.
— It's good that our Denzel has a friend now. After all, friendship gives birth to new ideas for interesting joint storylines.
Grandpa said this in the tone of a seasoned commentator, then suddenly caught himself.
— Oh, a notification about a comment under my post. I should reply.
And Denzel simply watched and couldn't get enough of it.
He was no longer alone.
It wasn't that he felt happy about this kinship of misfortune — it would have been far better if his partner in this were healthy and happy. But if circumstances had aligned this way, then let them live through this and the following moments of their lives together. Even without the ability to talk and learn more about each other.
Kasta clearly didn't want to share details of her daughter's life, understanding that they didn't need them. These two simply enjoyed being near one another.
How did she sense that? Probably intuitively.
Empathy — you either have it, or you're Pixie Luchador.
Forgetting about everything else, Denzel simply sat there, watching how the girl's rough hand turned into something… well, something… how to put it? Embodied grace? Boring. Better this: the hand of a person who gives themselves fully to what they love. That sounds more prosaic — and therefore more truthful.
A snake of unruly letters formed words, and those lined up in long ranks, rattling their spear-like hooks. A true written army, whose commander put nothing warlike into them. She was simply doing what she wanted. Nothing more.
And she was doing it well, considering that Denzel didn't even know the context of what was written. At first, there had been an urge to peek somehow, to ask for the notebook to be passed to him — but now he was simply enjoying the chance to touch something that had previously been inaccessible to him.
Now she was acting for the two of them. Giving him the opportunity to observe devotion. As someone who adored podcasts, he understood exactly what that was — a hobby that takes you nowhere and everywhere at the same time.
With such gentle thoughts, he fell asleep.
And slept for a very, very long time. It wasn't just about the pills — it was about the fact that he had finally managed to come to terms with himself.
— Peace comes only when the little chunk of ice from the top of the iceberg has already fallen and split your eyebrow.
Grandpa raised his index finger instructively and saluted with the remote.
And the next day, the young man was woken by shouts from the hallway. Sharp, piercing, deeply unpleasant to the ear. One could easily make out the cries of a single professional conflict-monger and Kasta's quiet objections.
"What is that asshole trying to pull now?"
Never before had Denzel so desperately wanted the ability to rush into the center of a scandal and calm everyone down — even if it meant a fist to Pixie's bridge of the nose. Back when Denzel still could, he had occasionally handed out light slaps like that.
Because Pixie had always behaved disgracefully. And now, only a jab would do, because:
"They can't stand up for themselves. Kasta is calm and not malicious, and SeaAsia can't say anything in response at all. How dare he!"
The yelling went on for quite some time, even after the front door slammed with unprecedented force. It was obvious that the younger brother had stormed outside in a fit of wounded feelings, after showering his addressee with a ton of ornate, old-fashioned insults scavenged from historical novels.
After a while, Kasta appeared in the living room and wheeled her daughter in. It was clear that they felt crumpled and lost. All Denzel could do was signal with the cursed bell and ask forgiveness with his eyes from the completely innocent participants in this disgrace.
"I'm so ashamed! Forgive me. It's not my fault that this bastard is my brother."
That morning, the caregiver's daughter didn't write anything. The notebook lay on her lap completely abandoned, and its owner sat with her eyes closed, not even wanting to look at Denzel. As if he were somehow to blame…
"But that's not true! Please understand me…"
And the next day, Kasta came alone. Completely alone.
"How is that possible? Why?! Is it because of yesterday's fight? He's just a hurt child who had his precious gift — money — taken away, and now he's taking his anger out on everyone," the young man screamed wordlessly.
Denzel's heart practically stopped at the realization that he might never see SeaAsia again. He could only watch her mother — and she was behaving very unlike herself.
The reflection of her feelings revealed itself in her twitching head, which slowly turned into a pendulum and could no longer stop. Her will simply wasn't there. The caregiver's gaze darted from side to side, and finally, bending forward and exhaling heavily, she collapsed into a chair.
Denzel's little finger moved toward the bell, but the explanation came without his reminder:
— Forgive me, sir, but my daughter won't be here today. She's had a complication related to her illness. Nothing critical, but she needs rest and medical care, so she's in the hospital now.
"Is she lying?! Is this just a convenient excuse not to come here? Or did SeaAsia really get worse? Either option is horrifying. And if my brother is the reason for this breakdown, then I'll— but what can I do?! Damn it! What am I supposed to do? How can I contact her?"
Meanwhile, Kasta was riding out her emotional storm in her own way. Reluctantly, she took out a bag, pulled from it the notebook everyone knew so well, and opened it, saying:
— If you don't mind, I'll read this to you, Mr. Denzel. My daughter gave it to me so that you could hear what she wrote. She asked me very much to do this, so…
"Read it! Come on!"
Denzel was tearing apart from the desire to find out what his new friend had been writing all this time. And, secretly, he hoped there might be some warm words about him in there. Let's be honest — he really wanted that.
Lingering with her eyes on the first page, she hesitantly began to taste the words.
— So… no, that won't do.
It was obvious she wasn't used to reading aloud. She even stood up and walked over to the small table near the couch where Grandpa was sleeping, to take the carafe of water and a glass.
After drinking and clearing her throat, she finally managed to find the right approach to reading what had suddenly become real life.