Chapter- 22

The prison gate locks from outside.

'O'. The letter 'O' can embody exactly what Ryan is feeling right now— its roundness metamorphosing into an entire spectrum of emotions, ranging from shock, ending at panic.

Ryan's heart leaps into his throat, sending a pool of fear coursing through his veins, "What. . . the hell?" His words incongruously tumbling out.

Compromising confusion registers a gravitational fear, but its parent Ryan struggles to understand whatever is happening.

"Oh fuck! I was just talking about this," mind trying to make sense of their predicament, Ethan shares dissatisfaction— in the pit of Ethan's stomach, a warning issue.

Who dares even to bat an eye, not Ryan in this case, "Sir…"

It's bare escape for one rusty sink, and an old wooden table. The looming silence only adds. It feels more like a real prison, that Ryan is actually trapped inside.

"You want to know how do we get out of here, I know," words flowing like a twisted stream of consciousness, Ethan gives a cynical smile, "That maybe because of two reasons. Either, you utterly despise being trapped here with me, or you don't have any faith in my plans, not the littlest bit."

Ryan squares his shoulders, "Neither," he retorts sharply, "Don't put words in my mouth. I'm thinking about something else. . .something weird, totally different."

Ignition takes place in an ambience, a potential combustible ambience, always going on in a loop, "Allow me to explain," Ethan continues, words polished by urgency, "We haven't yet got to this prison's best part, which is…I'm sure you're curious about, how does this door open!"

"It looks like you're the one more thrilled to share that oh-so-great secret about how this chest of love opens, not me who wants to know any shit. Why are you so eager?"

"There are three ways to unlock this gate," the creator of love prison uses his fingers to count. One- "The first is using an 'I'm sorry' buzzer, but as you can already see it yourself, it has not been implemented," unravelling a mystery of their confinement isn't of utmost importance, what is, you may ask— how to get this metal gate opened. Two- "The second method involves submitting anonymous feedback from any device, which will then be sent to prison's database—"

Cuts him off; Ryan literally cuts. him. off, he really grows up to be audacious every single day he spends at LOVESICK, "I'm really not wondering about it," he claims, "Have you thought about it? If the prison is designed as you accounted it to me, why and how did we get locked in here? My heartbeats are…completely normal sir," last few words were made to be unheard.

Ethan's eyes harden— what's the meaning of Ryan's words? He shoots back, frustration heaping, "What the hell are you implying?" Maddening uncertainty gnaws at his insides. "That I..."

"I'm only trying to make sense of this situation," pushing at the back any unpleasantness, his heartbeats reacting as backdrops to their struggle, "Because if my heart rate remains steady, the only plausible explanation is…"

"The prison is malfunctioning too? Just like the elevator?"

"It's not my fault if the only remaining possibility is, well," Ryan weighs their options carefully, that there might be an error in how the prison gate operates? "No. I know the same 'accident' will not take place twice, not in the same manner at least."

Every movement deliberate and unhurried, Ethan nurtures his assistant's warm wrist, bringing it to rest against his own chest— "Can you feel it, Ryan?" Words twinkle in susurration in Ethan's assistant's earlobe. "Isn't this what you wanted? Admit it, Ryan."

"Wh- what are you doing?" Ryan had never known it— never until now. The CEO with his commanding presence and chiselled jawline, exudes power, Ryan finds intriguing, always; today is no disparate. One step. Two steps. Three steps. Ethan is coming closer…

Ryan couldn't deny the familiarity, that strange, fluttering feeling…that same feeling Ryan would mortgage his everything to feel…again.

"Ryan…"

"Sir," it is magnetic, irresistible, drawing Ryan closer and closer; but why? Ryan heads back and back and back. On the day Ryan had met Ethan to sew his job, he felt his boss's hot fanning on each inch of his crevices. Why, today, it feels so different then? Why is the absence of gap between Mr. Miller and Mr. Haughty spiralling a big deal today?

Moment is electrified, suspended in time, is it too soon to say either of them wants these villainous ticks of a clock to be stopped? Ethan's deep azure eyes lock with Ryan's own shimmering hues, eyes knowing everything that the mouth can feel but not speak— desires and secrets are few metres away from twinning.

The prison gate unlocks from outside. Confinement accepts defeat to freedom's embrace. A restless click carries a message of liberation— but what if captives did not want to be released?

Ryan watches, breathless. "I'm sorry," nowhere to hide his abash, freeing from Ethan's hold on him, Ryan flies from the 'love prison', a flight of stairs welcoming him. Heart pounding like a crazy, unrestricted, mad. "Sorry," paralleling a broken record, Ryan constantly mumbles to a few of the guards stationed he had pushed, stooping at what can be known as farther from the first floor.

"Shall I open the door, Mr. Miller?" A sentinel inquires.

"Please…" he had pulled up in front of Ethan's forsaken alcove, "Thank you," fingertips ruffle his own chest— a haunting incident prior made his heartbeat maintain steady cadence, overcoming more than 83 pulsations every minute. Ryan, engrossed, zones out on his toe.

Swaying in air, a bunch of jingling keys coax Ryan into coming in, revealing the portal to a world of unimaginable treasures Ryan had vowed to return to. An allure is too potent for him to resist as the door swings open, and captivated by the enchantment, he absent-mindedly goes inside, instinctively slamming the door shut behind.

Stifled huffs burst, and Ryan's breath comes in ragged pants. An explosion of saliva fills the boy's mouth with a taste of horror. Ryan finds respite by leaning against the sturdy door, using it for support.

Inhaling deeply, Ryan talks to the silence, "What on earth just happened?" Time would be his ally in calming the turbulent soul, he knows, but there exists a catalyst that can hasten the easing of his troubled consciousness— the melodious balm of the same old violin.

Hope allows Ryan to take a place in its lap. Ethan bents down, sitting on his knees. Ethan's forgotten violin finds sanctuary in the field of scattered sheet music, remnants of tattered diaries, and the definite layer of dust that bestows a certain vitality pampering these discarded objects. "Do you feel the sting of betrayal, dearest violin?" Both understanding and compassionate, "Are you sad because your owner abandoned you, dear?" Ryan's hand, dipped in love and reverence, glides languidly at the sides of the violin's curves. A ballet unfolds— a delightful fusion of human sentiment, and personification of inanimate artistry.

This personification is not just a fleeting fancy; it's an artful expression of Ryan's desire to infuse life's monotony with a dash of difference. Just as a masterchef adds spices to cuisines, Ryan deftly sprinkles spices into a dish titled life. Ryan spices up the doldrums of existence by breathing vitality into lifelessness.

"Don't worry, dearest violin. Together, let us embark on a journey into the recesses of our boss's memory, the ones he always shuts down," this promise resonates. "And discover if he still cherishes you."

Gingerly, Ryan picks up the instrument. An extensive violin's once vibrant burgundy wood is now dull and tarnished, but not imperfect, a testament to the years it had spent hidden away from lights. Ryan is becoming one with the timeworn surface, feeling cold under his perfervid skin. A spotlight of gold prepares the stage for Ryan, the violin rests comfortably on performer's shoulder, as if a baby recognising its mother's touch.

Ryan positions his calloused fingers imperfectly along an ebony fingerboard. The room holds its breath. The bow, from years of languishing, meets the strings with yearning— filling the space with crowing of discordant notes.

A frightening noise that is unlike any melody ever heard, an incarnation of struggle and redemption. Scratching, screeching, howling, doing everything horrendous possible at once. Each note emerges with imperfection, a rawness— walls absorbing undulating sound waves, seemingly in awe of the haunting…beauty? Ryan's hand moves with abandon, unaware of the world outside this sacred space, lost in dissonance.

Ryan's eyes closed in an act of surrender, opened to reveal that had found release in the most unlikely of places.

"Stop it, Mr. Miller!" If there's anything worse than what Ryan is playing, it is— the door to the trash room is opened by that same sentinel from before, to reveal Ethan.

"Sir," a chilling wind blows, causing the fragments of discarded memories to whisper their encouragement, "Whoever you suspected of sending that email, is that person anyone from your office?"

"Stop playing that damn thing, Mr. Miller!"

"If it was not someone from your office, how did that person get your login credentials?"

"You're playing it horribly, Mr. Miller!" Ethan, enduring, covers his ears, "Please stop it!!"

"That means someone from your office is responsible, Sir. Directly or indirectly."

"I can't tolerate it anymore!"

Ryan retrieves something from the pocket of his black denim, "This is you, isn't it, Sir?" The picture of Ethan genuinely happy for this once, playing a violin, stealing the spotlight, stealing recognitions, stealing heartbeats..."It is you. Is that right, Sir?"

"Ryan. . ."

"If you want me to stop, teach me how to play it, Sir."

"The door was programmed to open if the heartbeats of both the persons present there, went above 83BMP. You said your heartbeats were normal, Ryan."

". . .teach me to play the violin, Sir."

-

Twilight pours in through the window, overlooking series of homes, accentuating Ryan's innate beauty in wooden frame, Ryan cradles a violin upon his shoulder, now truly his own. Strains that emanate are no more than exquisite, captivating even the birds who came to pay Ryan a visit in an impromptu choreography. Ryan's playing is a masterpiece, executed with finesse that is effortless…who can compliment grace? Inferno— Ethan Smith embodying the very fire Ryan's missing piece needs.

At the deck, where Ethan had stood with his assistant, a single, parallel music transcends from Ryan's dreamy heartbeats to the ferocious ones of Ethan; singing the same song.

"I know how to walk through fire~"

Distances apart, but that really does not matter.

"I know how to drown~"

"I will give you me~"

"If you become your own~"

If Ryan can be the placid waters, Ethan is unruly flames roaring with uncontainable energy.