BATTER 51

Baron, who looked as if he were about to raise his eyebrows in a rebellious arc, suddenly burst into a fit of laughter.

“You used to say I was cool and lovely—did your heart grow cold the moment we finished?”

The finger that had been tracing Bijou’s eye line lightly flicked his forehead. Tap. The sound of skin meeting skin echoed softly.

“I didn’t mean it as a slur.”

Bijou, having been struck on the forehead out of nowhere, offered this additional information without a hint of sulking. Baron simply chuckled. Normally, when Baron laughed like this, Bijou would at least smile along, but today, atop the bed, he was strangely subdued. He whispered.

“You ask for things that are different from what others want.”

“I’ve always been a bit like that.”

“You are also the first person to ask if I’m sad.”

The angel, having descended from his seat overlooking the celestial sphere, now had eyes like a young boy observing a new species of insect. Bijou gently brushed back the salt-dusted brown hair from Baron’s forehead.

“You are the first person to tell me I’m pitiful, too.”

The iris revealed behind the cleared hair was the color of a mound of earth draped in twilight. He reflected the world through a mechanical eye on one side and a human eye on the other. The mechanical eye was slightly brighter, more golden, with a distinct outline to the iris. With hands of transparent abstraction, Bijou carefully felt the unfamiliar compassion and strange ridicule Baron extended to him.

“Why do you pay attention to my emotions?”

Question: What does a compassionate sneer feel like?

“I guess other people really do think of you as an angel.”

Answer: A lukewarm breeze brushing against the bridge of the nose. The surface of a hard, rough palm.

Baron tapped and caressed Bijou’s cheek as if stroking a dog’s muzzle. The skin was impeccably sleek and soft. Milky silk that never wore out, the outermost feathers of a bird’s wing, and the mercy and affection they held.

Even without the elaborate use of drugs, he would have eventually been enshrined as an angel. If he had harbored secular desires, he could have become anything in that world above. Even someone as cruel as the Boss had been so starved for love that he didn’t realize a chain was being fastened around his neck. Was he not willingly giving away the very thing that humans, rendered infinitely fragile since being cast out from the Creator’s garden, have yearned for so desperately?

A love that is good, merciful, eternal, flawless, and innocent…

Baron Lin laughed. It was a low, muffled sound. He rested his hand on Bijou’s cheek and blinked. Each time his eyelids closed, the afterimage inside his metal stomach scattered into the darkness.

“But see, I don’t believe in that stuff. Being infinitely kind, merciful, eternal, flawless, innocent—embarrassing things like that.”

He remembered his first experience with affection. He could clearly recall a nest that was bad, merciless, already destroyed, born of flaws, and explicitly guilty. In that place, his only home to which he could never return, there was a shattered love that only he could understand. Baron whispered serenely.

“Don’t try to be something like that, Darling.”

“Why is that?”

Bijou asked quietly. After a moment of thought, Baron spoke. His voice was soft and calm, like a breeze sliding over the ridge of a hill.

“Because every time I see something like that, I realize… just how lonely I am. Haha.”

A gruff laugh mangled the end of his sentence. When even the laughter faded and silence fell, Baron regretted saying it. Whatever, it just is what it is. Feeling awkward, like someone who had told a disastrously failed joke, he turned his head away. He felt something press close against his turned back. Bijou, hugging him cozily, whispered ticklishly against his spine.

“I will be with you.”

“Because you’re the S2-2 for the lonely man?”

Predictable words. Baron snorted, overlapping his hand with the one that had climbed onto his stomach. The neat fingers twitched, stiffening at the joints before curling back obediently.

“Yes. No. Yes. Actually, I’m not really sure.”

Leaning his forehead against the broad back, Bijou wavered between affirmation and denial. Ultimately unable to conclude anything, he rubbed his forehead softly against him.

“I’m not sure…”

He curled his body like a young animal. A faint sense of weight and warmth was transmitted. A fake breath, nothing more than a cosmetic feature designed solely to soothe humans, hissed and seeped near Baron’s shoulder blade. Was clinging to another’s waist and rubbing his head like this the survival method he had mastered? Baron replied, mimicking tenderness.

“It’s okay. Not knowing something is where the fun is.”

Bijou’s hand draped over Baron’s stomach resembled a lily drooping weakly. Baron caressed the docile wrist as if handling a flower stalk.

“Fun is a good thing…”

The inside of the white wrist was as soft as black hair at night.

Only after a long time of rustling about on the bed did they wash up and try to sleep. The next morning, Baron woke to the sight of Bijou’s back as he boiled something on the stove. Bubble, bubble. It wasn’t a particularly surprising sight anymore. A narrow bed, a backache, and the silhouette of a blonde beauty holding a pot.

Feels like I’m enjoying a honeymoon. Baron yawned deeply and approached him from behind. Sensing his presence, Bijou turned his head with a bright smile. Thanks to him, a brilliant ray of light shone even in this subterranean city where the sun never reached.

“Good morning!”

“Yeah, thanks to you.”

“Do you have any pain or discomfort? The condition of the transplanted eyeball and the inserted…”

“I’m fine, I’m fine.”

Baron nodded dismissively. Apparently, that wasn’t enough, as Bijou’s gaze wouldn’t leave his waist. Trying his best to ignore the persistent stare, Baron pulled his pants up firmly and glanced into the rolling pot. Beyond the bubbling foam, he saw a sausage-like lump.

“Preparing breakfast alread—oh, shit.”

It didn’t take long for Baron to realize the true identity of the “sausage,” and he whipped his head away. What Bijou was boiling was none other than his own genitals. Baron, rarely caught off guard, rubbed the bridge of his nose and let out a hollow laugh.

“That… was detachable?”

“Yes. Actually, according to the manual, general cleaning is sufficient, but for thorough hygiene management, I perform heat sterilization after intercourse…”

Thorough bastard… The sight inside the hot pot, glimpsed through narrowed eyes, was quite gruesome. Baron Lin thought he had lived his life with his own brand of thoroughness, but it seemed the time had come to concede to a master. He chuckled, “Ahaha,” and clapped Bijou on the shoulder.

“Hey, man, if you’re the one doing the thrusting, at least I don’t have to worry about catching an STD. Wow. Truly top-tier.”

Right, no matter how much a human prepares, they can’t do heat sterilization. Definitely. Anyway, since Baron called him the best, Bijou gave a beaming smile. Once the genitals were sufficiently disinfected, he took them to the bathroom and shut the door. If you’re going to be shy now, you should have boiled it with the lid on. He really was a thorough and unexpectedly bashful bastard.

After attaching his perfectly sterilized junk, Bijou headed toward the door without so much as a goodbye. Baron called out to stop his indifferent pace.

“Where are you going?”

“It is time to help with the food distribution. Would you like to come along?”

Bijou’s kindly extended finger pointed toward the surface. Baron had seen with his own eyes how well the greenhouse was maintained, but humans required sufficient amounts of protein and fat. In the outside world, synthetic meat served as a substitute, but there didn’t seem to be the facilities or personnel to create synthetic meat here. Baron nodded slowly, pretending not to be curious.

Bijou guided Baron to the surface. The dawn of the new year was dark, silent, and eerie. Far off on the horizon, neon lights shimmered like a nebula. The quiet darkness, devoid of a single advertisement, felt alien, and Baron took a deep breath. The dry air, thick with dust, scraped against his throat.