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His Duke greets him with a kiss on the hand first and foremost.
And when he leaves, he’ll do the same again.
Like a pair of lips sealing a letter.
As if the man were greeting a lady of high society. Or like the Duke is honoring a king in his castle. No matter what, it happens every time like clockwork.
And it’s nothing romantic like an outsider might believe.
But then again, there are many things an outsider would not understand. About Augustine or even Bain himself.
’Perhaps he is from some place foreign,’ they might assume. Culture norms are quite different from country to country. Of course then this outsider might notice his voice. American accent so clear. So smooth. A well spoken man, but obviously of a distinct culture that does not see his actions as anything else but an old-fashion lover’s greeting.
But the two have never cared about how others see their actions. Only the meaning they themselves intended.
And the intentions are clear and plain.
But only to them.
A reminder of a moment of both's vulnerability from a time ago.
Memories kept so guarded by the heart. Comparative to a criminal’s journal masquerading as a common man’s diary. Blood ink written so neatly.
A pleasure of secrecy cloaked by late nights and diligence.
All those years ago when Bain had visited and exchanged greetings with a man from Rhode Island. He wasn’t sure what to expect. Only that his research should lead him to a well-traveled man. It was documented to be so. Research kept thorough and organized.
Quite like his life.
The man he met turned out to be in stoic mourning.
The death of his grandfather was inevitable, but it still greatly impacted him despite him being in his young thirties.
But openly, he remained unmoved.
Apparently, the Rhode Islander’s life was full of this kind of death. Genes plagued by disease and failure. Lives full of tradition and risk taking that always cut their lives shorter than most. It seeped and infected their companions too. Death always lingered around the corner. A childhood full of this awareness. Taught young about the gorgeous stained glass of life’s fragility. Always ready to shatter at a moment's notice along with everything they own. A memento mori through blood and artifacts.
Though his grandfather lived a bit longer than most of his relatives, or those who surrounded them.
It was still a fresh wound.
The Duke wondered how long he himself would last. Everything comes to an end. No matter your wishes. Of course this was something that was not talked about until they were closer.
He always did open up better when they were working.
A cool head and even cooler demeanor kept most troubles close to heart. But soon, they were with each other every day. Trying to decode and understand half-written notes from a dead man. All while writing their own. Hungry for any knowledge. Analyzing any detail he and the other man could get their hands on. Like thieves in the night. The kind of consistent contact that leads to casual talk. And so Bain found himself doing something he shouldn't have, but did not regret.
The analyst found he did that often.
So it shouldn't have surprised him when he ended up talking about himself. Yet the visitor still could not believe it. From the mundane to major. Goals and true colors. All revealed in hushed hues. He would make that mistake years later again towards a man in Texas. But he still swore that it would never be of the depth it was the first time. ’A necessary thing’ he thought. ‘It was careless to offer such information so easily.’
So open and vulnerable. So…
The way the other man looked at him; his eyes showed only warmth.
It left him damned to tell truths for once. Easy as opening a book. Then again, this thief did not seem to be the type to openly talk either. A man that puzzled him and led him in circles. Fascination with the unknown and aliens too. Cold exterior melted after working with each other. Revealing a lively strange man underneath.
Maybe it was whatever made the house feel so off to the visitor.
So he learned the mind of an art thief.
Bain had learned of his fellow man. How the Stoic did his craft. How he compared history and literature to predict things and drew conclusions. How he made complex codes. How he talked when obscuring his meaning. How to read the writing on the wall. How he felt lost in his grandfathers swallowing, all-consuming shadow. How Augustine claimed it was fine. How the shadows provide protective cover, after all.
He learned about the man that called himself the Duke. That was given the name of the Augustine Lindhurst before him.
It was heavy, yet somehow still light talk.
And oh they talked. Anything and everything came up under those old yellow lights. Their discussions weren't restricted by social taboos either. Why should it? They’ve already broken laws.
’Why keep themselves away from things that supposedly should not be spoken about?’
From conspiracies to cats, they talked about it all. Argued about silly politics and serious morals. Told stories of drunken parties and wild nights. Personal philosophies critiqued. New trends made light heartily mocked. A comradery they built together. Bonds fostered to last, just like where they stayed. A house built years before either of their times. Meant to last after the death of its constructors. The feeling of being removed from it all. The world miles away. It made him want to write it all down. To preserve the memories. Like a museum of pages.
A house filled to the brim with secrets waiting to be discovered.
So when they spoke in hushed tones about conspiracies that had yet to be proven false; a thrill would rush through his soul. Old familiar needs reawoken. A captivating wonder he hadn’t felt in a while. His focus, ever inconsistent, fell in full effect during those times. A hyperfixation on secrets he wished to unlock with his companion.
Curiosity and a devouring hunger for knowledge.
For understanding.
For more.
Bain always had an incurable hunger for the truth. It always got him in trouble. Always spelled doom for him. Left him hurt, just for wanting to know more. Suppose it made sense how it all ended up then. Look too closely and others will notice.
But he just had to know.
Like a craving left unchecked. This burning candlelight of glutton would melt his wax wings and lead to his fall. Hubris of wanting to know all despite the warnings. Wings haloed by the sun. Casting a shadow for others to hide in as he fell back down to earth.
All for the satisfaction of knowing.
It made his time researching and studying with Augustine longer than what he had initially planned.
And he threw himself into this new interest. It made nights and days blend together. His sleep was erratic. The visitor’s eating was managed by his new dear friend. Always telling him to move and when it was time to eat. To take a break lest he break his wrists. Long conversations that all blurred as the only information he remembered was what he learned from study. What he wrote.
The only thing he should remember was what he learned.
That was his purpose here.
But there was one conversation that always stuck out. One that should not have. It wasn't worth the note he gave it. But his mind echoes the memory like it has the most important meaning.
Like it was world changing.
And maybe it was to the other.
But he was a Mastermind. The man behind the curtain, the puppeteer manipulating light and shadows. Something like that memory was not useful. Everything before and after stayed the same. He gained no new weapon. No new tactic. Notes were not added to his plan. Nothing of use.
Yet it always replayed whenever his Duke visited the dark castle of a safehouse he stayed in.
Perhaps it was the art thief’s consistent reminder.
He was told it was a symbol of why he was devoted.
A symbol of his purpose.
Loyalty given not for a cause, but for the person behind it. For the mastermind’s vulnerability. For his own vulnerability. For the self-discovery of identity that night; for everything else he gave before and after.
A marking of change, from friendly to close.
Unwritten pledging and re-pledging of loyalty, protection, and support in any way he’d need him.
Memories from a late night.
It started with a bottle of wine, and a personal tale of four romances. Withered roses that felt red with love, but they had thorns that left him bleeding. Wounds that healed improperly. Infected puncture marks. Love letters torn and burned. The ones given unto him locked deep away. The art thief called it a failure on his part; his Augustine forever trying to bear the load of others' errors.
’He had loved them all’, he told Bain.
Every time, he believed his heart was earnest in its love. Emotions given through letters and soft talks. Quiet heart so vulnerable. It was hard to imagine the Stoic in such a position. In any such romance at all really.
His Duke paused his thoughts to savor another taste of his wine.
The other man joined him in drinking.
Bain went through the crimson drink faster than the storyteller in front of him. It loosened his lips and mind. Judgment left changed. Sips that lessen his inhibitions. A depressant dressed up in fancy taste. Made his thoughts grow bold. Go to places they shouldn't. But he managed not to say too much until his Duke finished a story that the Stoic claimed to be one of his biggest shames.
Bain tried to hide his disagreement with the statement.
Facts had to be ignored for it to be true. And he wasn’t a fan of doing that. But the story was not fully told. So he gave the benefit of the doubt.
Or at least pretended to.
The art thief told the way they always greeted his softly given kisses of meaning with a desire for more. Always more. But he felt none the same. No flame of passion or call from below at all. ’Surely if he loved them he'd want their body!!!’ They told him with other such lies over and over again. Screams of frustration. Supposed “needs” left unsatisfied. And the stoical man just took it. Took it without comment and with graceful dignity. All until they broke and left him.
Left him all alone once again.
'Perhaps, I deserved it. I did not give what was expected from me after all. That is the fine print of something romantic. To help feed the flame of attraction. Mother nature’s curse against me.' he confided under the candle lit night.
The other man refused this as an acceptable answer.
So he gave his own.
With flaming passion he said his Augustine should not be expected to always be such a giver. Clearly they were spoiled-hearted. Wanting something not theirs to own. Perhaps he did not even sway towards them like that. But that thought never crossed their selfish minds did it? Foolish, uncalculated. What worth did they even give to Augustine?
Upon this rant, he was given an intense and surprised stare accompanied by burning red cheeks.
A question of what he meant by ‘swaying a way’.
Bain's quiet queer truth of red, blue, and purple roses.
He told of this, hoping crimson petals would not bleed on the floor. Hoping the melted wax would not leave any burn scars. Many long written paragraphs to hopefully not be edited to apply in past tense. His hubris forever follows him. Leaving his bridges in ashes. The mess could be hard to clean. Ink smudges and stains everywhere. Infecting anything it touches. However the visitor had no reason to believe this as a possible reaction.
Yet years of hiding for survival made any light frightening. And blinding. Trust could wilt like removed rose petals. Quick and fast.
So he watched for a reaction.
His Stoic swallowed a hard comment. A thought that Bain is still desperate to know. Longingness to read a mind he could barely understand.
And then his Duke accepted his bouquet.
Tension petals cut. An artist appreciates the color choice.
Good for both occasions.
This reveal was followed by a request.
To see if his visitor was right. Should the Stoic's truth be of a preference towards something less feminine bear fruit... Well then they’ll go from there.
If not, well...
What's a learning experience between confidants?
No one was around for it to count for anything. To write it down. Record it. For it to be held against them. They could trust each other. Right?
The two had many other secrets between them, what’s one more? Besides...
Better here where it's safe.
Beyond these walls, this type of truth… Outsiders could consider casting stones if done wrong.
So his Augustine leaned in, and Bain felt soft lips against his own. It was sweet and chaste. The burning aftertaste of whiskey that he did not drink lingered on him. Mixed so ugly with wine. Not a combo he’d suggested. At the time however it tasted like a good idea. Filling him with something soft and warm. So much, yet so little. Heavy, yet light. Heart soaring through the sky. Contact of any kind tends to do that to him though.
A connecting of their palms and light twining of fingers together.
Soothing gestures while they flew over new land.
Grounding and good.
They stayed clasped and held even as his Stoic leaned away. His truth revealed in earnest. An enjoyment much more than that of a woman, but still no spark for more.
And that was enough of an answer for both of them.
An acceptance that his Stoic has no yearning for such things. It clicked in Bain's head like a puzzle piece. Unraveling of a book’s final mystery. Understanding of something that made much more sense. A discovery that wasn't surprising. Yet not unsurprising either. Knowledge of something new.
All while their hands connect gently.
The soft contact burned into Bain's soul in a way no other memory did.
An energy of rightness, of contentedness.
And no drive for anything more.
Yet long after this his Stoic Duke greets him with gestures of yellow roses and tulips together at the mastermind’s hand.
A gentle hug occasionally accompanies this gesture. Maybe even a question of food and health. Sometimes to break him out of a fixation that’s harmful. A grounding act to keep him from flying too close to the sun. Candle gold-drop hunger burning his anchor along the way. Reminders to stretch before long use of his wrists. Lest they be covered in surgical scars rather than ink.
Other times in an act of theatrics, should the occasion call for it.
Tricking many to see something not there. Manipulating shadows to distract. To entertain. When he was tired, his Augustine presented the kiss alongside a soft blanket. But all those were situational.
Unlike the soft caressing of lips that always met his skin. And the same would always be given upon him upon his exit as well.
A strange absolute.
An area not extremely well lit, yet not swimming in darkness. A blurry truth that they know. Smudge writing you can barely read. No romance ever intended.
Just undying devotion.
Covering each other's blind spots equally. Like knight and king. One amongst the prying watching eyes for the watcher, the other looking elsewhere for dangers. Art and history dancing together in a way most will not see. A hidden shadow puppet play. Misdirecting candles deceptively sweet scented. Hiding sharp smelling blood. Unsuspecting suspects. Two roles so well fitting. A duo done so well you’d think they were born for them. Like written poetry. They rhythmed so nicely.
And should Bain wish it, he could easily mutter any request and his Augustine would fulfill it. Without hesitation, no matter his own personal feelings.
But the mastermind would never do that.
Not to any of his heisters, least his loyal Stoic. The one who never complained. The one who watched him from afar. The one who willingly came back after getting burned over and over. The one who did not experience hunger for other’s bodies. The one who did not know of the proper term until much later on.
An enlightenment given by Bain's newest one.
Young Joy with her knowledge so vast. She stated facts like fiction and vice versa. Yet her statement at this time was undeniable. His hacker told his Stoic of a label that fit nicely.
The Ace of the deck.
A bouquet of black, white, and purple.
A new title added to his collection. A truth revealed that did not shock his other heisters at all.
And least of all it did not surprise Bain.
Not like the farewell kiss his Augustine gifted to him.
It was directly to his lips for the second and last time of his life. The parting message of loyalty soaked in gratefulness and mourning. The closest the stoical man would break his school of thought while working. Softness left obscured. But they both knew and understood.
They had learned of their fellow man too well.
All as he died in the shadows of the secrets they chased together. He had finally fallen. Flew too close, felt his back burn and scar as he fell. Picking up speed. And any anchor would only make the pain and damage worse.
He had now hit the ground.
Hard.
It was an inevitability that the Navigator saw from afar. The writing on the wall long since translated. He felt his wings melting. Foolishly, he continued to fly anyways. The actual conclusion still taking him off guard. The ending he wrote surprising him anyway. Leaving him staring upward where he once soared. With wonder and fear. Knowing that all he knew was nothing. Starving to death as he burned. New scars crossing his body. A gory final act. Yet still an artistic ending that is strangely suited.
His memento mori.
So as the sweeps of darkness embraced, a smile ghosted his face.
His last view was his Duke; loyally watching him without outward complaint.
Only acceptance.
A lesson learned. A life had been plagued by those close to him leaving.
Somber cold eyes only faltering after Bain faded. Wet rain poured from his eyes and heart. He breathed in deeply. There was work still to do. For his Bain still had plans left. Still had work. So he would not break.
Not until much later.
Surrounded by bottles, the alcohol no longer numbed him. His cat, sensing distress, climbs onto the bed. Pablo always seemed to know when his solitude needed company. His new companion crawls on top of him and purrs loudly. So warm and soft. A creature of comfort. It's one of the few sounds in the apartment.
The other main noise being his phone.
Augustine's head hurts from the noise. Too much whiskey last night, and not enough this morning. But he must be sober this particular day. A museum's opening should not be accompanied by drunkenness.
It was improper.
So he laid down on his bed; the largest was advertised as a luxury but now it just felt oppressive. Silk sheets haloed around him, they needed washing, but he couldn't move himself to care. Once he gets back from the opening he'll do them then. After a swing of whiskey. Craving only worsened with time.
But no drinking now. No matter how much he craved the usquebaugh. He had a duty.
His museum had purpose after all.
He had purpose.
The Duke's phone plays another voice mail.
The voice of Bain's Dallas from the past conveys and bleeds concerns about contact. The Medic showing unnecessary worry. Quite soft. Very familiar too. Makes his heart squeeze and ache. But the Duke still listens. He had after all, a backload of these messages to get through. And he had plenty of time till the opening to do so.
And thus, very slowly, he went through them all.
Voices calling and trying to summon his presence, telling him of fortunes passed in attempts to soothe the robbing of his own. But shadows were merely an absence of light. Turning on a spotlight wouldn’t make the silhouette easier to see. It will simply vanish like the passage of time. Like all things do.
But that doesn't mean there isn’t beauty in it.
Like slowly wilting flowers. Or the way life slowly leaves a body. The last flicker of flame as a candle wick burns through its final moments. All around it melted. Light escaping a prism and becoming separated into multicolored rays. There is beauty in endings.
And he can't help but stare at it.
Stare as time passes.
As he opens a museum, a subtle nod to his mastermind of the past.
A display of the past cryptic and mythical. Set in a way that you can stumble upon the true knowledge hidden in flowery languages of unknown. The passage of time that blends together like paint. He stares at a newly donated piece. It was given to him by Bain’s Hitman. Lost and found during his final job. A Mr. D'Antonio's loss is Augustine's gain. Picasso stares at him as the cat named after him rubs at his legs.
Welcoming warmth creeps and comforts.
The painting is in his home for now. A personal enjoyment.
His Bain always did enjoy blue.
Was it a joke about those often crashing computers? Or did he simply like the morning sky?
He wished he asked.
But is also relieved he didn't. The unknown accompanies him rather than haunts him. Allows him to learn about the newly dead in ways he had not yet before.
Augustine smiles as Pablo observes the painting. His cat looking as if he's above the painting, yet still captivated by it. A prideful expression on his cat. Leftover amusement warms him. Surprising yet not so he can still care to feel such things. He has a duty first and foremost, everything else is second. Finding out he's capable of things beyond, is always enjoyable.
A very pleasant reminder.
Enlightenment hits him as he pours down more whiskey into his flask. He makes a few calls. Finances planned and freshly cleaned. A building renovated. Invitations written.
New ideas set in motion.
And he can't help but ponder what his mastermind would think. A small home with a workplace that was more lavishly treated. Museum marble and other decadence all around. While the house was painted with primaries and left unorganized. Methodically messy. So different from his grandfather's candle lit abode.
With everything set and planned, dates were given back to him. He has one last task.
A phone never felt so heavy.
He finds the courage to pick up the phone, and finds himself hoping to leave a message rather than dare talk to those he abandoned. He failed his duty to them. Throwing it all onto a building that was more symbolic than anything. It’s useless to delay an inevitable. But perhaps he could get lucky. The others have such busy lives nowadays. Surely none of them will have the time to answer.
Unfortunately, luck isn't real.
He dances through a conversation with the Crew Chief. Trying his best not to burden or reveal his own heavy mindset. Hoping he does not note Duke’s quieter voice to mean anything. He gives an invite to something new.
Augustine had free time.
And so his mind was left to wonder.
Horrid thoughts of pity and guilt curl up. But he is tired of that. Distraction through work is so easy. Feels quite therapeutic, if you ask him. Perhaps he should finally clean up?
Sheets washed, he began to move boxes.
Sorting items he finds some old things. Recorded tapes he pushed back to be listened to later. He doesn't remember exactly what they were. Only that they were labeled with a shade of blue that made him feel sick to look at. So he ignores that and continues.
Rediscovering old things in the mess.
A box of gifts.
The other heisters so caring with what they left. It left his eyes burning.
Knights who abandoned their posts are quite shameful. Who swears loyalty to a kingdom and leaves? Self-given exile at this point. Started out as trying to run from pain. Run from what everything that man loved. Quite cowardly of the Duke.
He finds a leather bound book.
It only makes the feeling worse. A journal. Written by an Icarus he once knew. Or he thought he did. Memories do change with time. They get worse and worse. Degrading until there is nothing left. Even the most treasured companions are forgotten.
The energy to clean is drained from him. Soft leather and old pages stole it.
He dropped it in with the tapes like it had burned him.
His furry companion is extra diligent during that night and the couple following up to the event. Apparently worried about him. Purring so caringly. A reminder. Duke had to get up in the morning to feed him. Maybe give him a treat? He deserves it, after all.
Picasso was always observant.
Truly he chose his cat right. It felt wrong to not have a watcher. So he enjoys himself the purrs as if they were analytic directions. A body to lean on him as watches the city. Pretending its bright electric neon was a faded waxy yellow. That this old apartment had age that came anywhere close to that small home in Rhode Island. That its history was deep and tied to secrecy.
Like all things, the day eventually arrives.
He re-meets and greets many familiar faces. The blue period of painting is shown to onlookers. They look in awe. Or at least pretend too.
Connected to the art halls is a related exhibit, not that any would know. It was dedicated to cover ups and coops. A semi artistic warning. He might as well have been blunt with what it was.
When he met the eyes of his ex-teammates, understanding had shown in them.
They knew the truth.
All so used to his codes by now.
Nathan Steele gifted him blue roses and red poppies for the event. Mystery and Mourning. Presented with humor to hide the truth. Solidarity, understanding, and regards. They both felt their hearts cut deeply that day.
So he greets it with a strained and loaded smile.
Quiet hearts so vulnerable and together.
He invited the other back to his apartment. It looked awful. Paper and boxes everywhere. Small items scattered around. But there was organization to it all, so it worked.
Perhaps a reflection of their own journeys.
Pablo seems to be friendly to the familiar stranger invading his sanctuary. Or at least seemed to enjoy sitting on Dallas’s shoe while biting at its laces. A look of bemusement was the banker’s only reaction. A lighter subject to start the visit. They talked under unnatural glow, discussing old memories. It was heavy yet light. A closure of old and a budding of new.
He left Nathan with a promise.
Should Bain's Dallas have any request, the Mastermind's Duke would always be loyal.
And with that, Mr. Steele left for his boat that sailed across dark oceans.
It was such a strange thing.
To feel sadness after social gatherings.
So Augustine ended up finishing a task from earlier that week. It was easy to find both the old recordings and the book.
Listening to audio and reading never made him cry in the past. Yet…
Everything changes eventually, he supposes.
The voice of a dead man rambling on about a factual conspiracy comforted him. Pages revealed a grand plan for sure. But it also noted such lovely small things. Like the smoky scent of Nathan. Nicolas’s idle trigger finger, even when there’s no weapon in hand. James’s new love for wine. Ulf’s inconsistent sleeping habits. Small things that they don’t hide but don’t draw attention to. His Bain was always a people watcher.
Little doodles also accompanied these long rambles.
Unorganized thoughts written in blue trying to sort themselves on faded pages.
The pen’s markings go back many years. But with inky sentences from the very recent past as well. It showed in his notes of illness. Of things he wouldn't know without physically being there. Of his exact pain. Of loneliness.
Left him speechless and exposed.
Soon he had exhausted all of the records. Tapes all used. Every page read. Felt his eyes dry up as he read the apology of the dead. A final farewell. The marking of pressed yellow roses and tulips on the final page. Trying to return the Duke’s pledge and promise. A king's commitment to guiding his knight.
-Signed from your Bain to you, My Duke-
Watery shadows creeping at the edge of his vision.
And the night's shadows began to be chased away by sunlight.
Daylight greeted him with sorrowfully bright light. And he says farewell by retreating into the comfortingly dim shadows.
And the gray darkness greets Duke by kissing his hands first and foremost.