When it came to choosing what he would do with his life, his parents didn't pressure him. His father secretly wished he would follow in his footsteps and apply to study law at the university. He certainly had the brain for it. As a teenager, he excelled in math and was able to defend his opinions accurately and without mixing feelings into his arguments. When he graduated from secondary school, he was at the top of his class. But he was not proud of this achievement since he didn't consider himself being at the same level as the other kids. It wasn't fair towards them and he always felt guilty and nervous when someone praised him for his achievements.
By now he had realized that trying to hurry through his youth would not make him grow any faster and thus he adjusted to whatever his current situation was. He was not rushing anymore. He worked the autumn in his father's law firm, made coffee, copied some documents, attended some boring meetings and learned the things he could. But he really had no interest in the field and he felt like there was something else he wanted to do.
Since he owned a female tarantula and a talking cat, he considered veterinary science or medicine for a while. He teased Pawie that if he actually became a vet, he would take the cat as his personal assistant and use it as his guinea pig for new vaccines and injections. Pawie was not amused and refused to talk to him or sleep next to him for nearly two weeks. Seeing how upset his little pal was, he ultimately decided to forget that path as well.
Like many things in life, his career path was also decided by a whimsical, almost accidental click of the mouse when he was browsing through the web. Another rogue ball that life on the Plains just tossed at his lap. He found glass blowing. For some reason, an interesting video was dropped into his "recommended" bar and he only had to watch one short clip and he was completely smitten. Suddenly a whole new world opened in front of his eyes. A world made of glistening sweat, muscles, rhythmic moves, scorching heat, and seductive, transparent curves and lines. Like an addictive book or a series that hooks you and ropes you in, he just had to see one more video, read one more chapter, or see one more episode.
When he told his parents, practically screamed it at their faces, what he wanted the do, they glanced at each other but had no objections. They reminded him that being a craftsman required patience, a lot of work, and even a bit of luck to succeed in the modern world. Nobody appreciated handmade art these days. No matter what you created, somewhere, someone would sell the same thing, only cheaper. Their words didn't discourage him; he simply smiled at them and was brimming with confidence. He had mostly drifted through his childhood and his youth but now he had a goal he really wanted to work for. He applied to the school and got an invitation for an entrance exam. So he went, sure of himself, and fell flat on his face. He discovered that he was far from an expert in this field. He blundered like an idiot, failed countless times, and shied away from the heat of the furnaces. But by the end of the day, he was determined to conquer this challenging material. His head was full of ideas and as he poured them all out for the teachers who interviewed him. They smiled and tried to say a word or two in between his enthusiastic bursts.
When he finally received the letter of acceptance, he was walking on clouds for the whole week. He spent the following night watching another bunch of videos he hadn't seen and once again came to the conclusion that this profession was incredibly sexy. He saw a man with a slender built covered in sweat from head to toe, his tight muscles contracted and flexed under his tank top. It was like filming a highly erotic scene in a very dark room where you could only hear the voices but barely see anything at all. But he was amazed by his skill level, the smoothness, the fluency of his actions. He didn't make mistakes and he controlled the material just with the quick, professional movements of his body.
Pawie wasn't impressed and stared at him like he really was a lunatic. Esmeralda simply showed her utmost contempt when he talked to her about it, cleaned her enclosure and replaced her water dish. If his spider could have talked, it might have agreed with Pawie for the first time ever and told him to shut up about it. When he was finished, she turned around and ignored him for the following days.
At the beginning of January, right after the Christmas celebrations, Milot's eighteenth birthday arrived. He knew he still had to wait several years before he could go and find Dorian but at least he wasn't a minor anymore. His parents had planned quite a celebration for him. In the morning, his mother knocked on his door and walked in with a fashionable yet very casual outfit, and placed it on his bed. She knew that Milot didn't care for fashion and if he had his way, he would spend the entire day in his worn-out pajama pants and an old, ragged T-shirt. She allowed him to choose his own outfit but demanded that it was at least somewhat festive. After three of four real fights, a week of silent treatment from Milot's side, and two drawn-out debates, they finally reached a compromise. His outfit consisted of a pair of blue jeans, a white collared shirt, and a light grey cardigan. His mother wanted him to wear nice shoes but socks were sacred to him, especially during the winter. He agreed to everything else as long as he didn't have to wear shoes indoors. He pulled on a pair of black, hand-knitted wool socks and he was ready to go. When he walked to the living room, his dad emerged from the garage with a crate full of sparkling wine.
The guests were supposed to come at 3 PM. Before that, his mother winked at her husband and after some suspicious whispering, they secretively left the house. His father said that he forgot some important documents at the office and he absolutely had to go and get them. It was Saturday and clearly, his father could fetch his documents on Sunday, well before the week began. Milot raised his eyebrows and knew there was definitely something else behind their sudden trip to the city but when his mother kissed him on the cheek and smiled softly, he didn't prevent them from going. As soon as they were out of the door, Pawie jumped after him, followed him to the kitchen, and demanded a big piece of the cake. Milot firmly refused and told him that it was not healthy for a house cat, and especially for an old grandpa like he was. Pawie was immediately offended. It crunched its little face, hopped onto the sink and from there on top of his shoulders, and displayed its amazing balance.
"I was not always a cat!" it groaned right into his ear. "When I was a bird, you didn't care if I ate rotten corpses or a rat every now and then! Hell, you even threw me a couple of eyeballs!"
"That was then," Milot tried to pry its claws off without getting his new cardigan torn to pieces. "Now you are a sophisticated house cat. Act like one."
"I was literally crushed under your dad's car once already," Pawie argued. "There's nothing more unhealthy than dying. But I was yanked out of my grave because you supposedly needed and missed me. A piece of cake won't do me any harm. Now, give it!"
Pawie climbed on top of his head and tried to reach the fridge. Milot leaned back and the tomcat almost tumbled right into the sink. In the last minute, it managed to turn around and dug its claws deep into the boy's scalp. The pain made Milot curse out loud and he hurried into the bathroom, stepped under the shower, and was ready to soak them both if the cat didn't let go. As soon as Pawie saw the threatening shower head above, it let out a loud scream, hissed, and jumped to the floor.
"You. Dare!" it growled at him and all its hair stood on its body. Its tail was twice as thick as it used to and it looked like a teddy bear that someone stuffed into an electrical outlet and gave a severe jolt.
"Your choice, pal," Milot rubbed his head. "An unplanned shower or..."
"Fine!" Pawie groaned dramatically. "Just act like I never mentioned it."
"Your claws as sharp as fuck!" Milot kept rubbing his head and Pawie licked his paws like nothing could get to him to anymore. "You almost scalped me."
"You're immortal," Pawie replied. "Don't give me that shit."
"I used to be," Milot sighed. "Now I'm not so sure anymore. So, in order for you to not accidentally kill me in your righteous anger, how about instead of cake, I'll give you something else?" Milot soothed it. "Shrimps, maybe?"
"R...r...really?" Pawie's eyes flashed with desire, its tongue stopped in the middle of a serious cleaning session, it lifted his tail and followed the boy back to the kitchen. "You better not be kidding...shrimps..."
"I'll cook them first a little," Milot opened the freezer. "Be patient."
In a half an hour Pawie was content, its stomach filled and it lay down on the kitchen floor, stretched, and closed its eyes. Milot smiled, knelt down, and rubbed its tummy. Soon enough the comforting, familiar purring was the only sound that echoed through the house.
"Are mom and dad coming back soon?" Pawie finally yawned. "It's been over an hour already. It shouldn't take long for them to drive to dad's office and back."
Milot glanced at the clock. Pawie was right. It had been over an hour. The guests for the party would only arrive in two hours so he wasn't that worried yet. He picked up his phone and dialed his dad's phone number. No answer. His other hand still caressed Pawie's fur when he selected his mother's number. Still – no answer. He looked outside and realized that the short winter day was starting to dim already and the pale, distant sun was setting behind the trees as the twilight slowly walked into the room.
Half an hour passed. Pawie stopped purring. Milot picked up his phone again and now Pawie sat next to him in the middle of the kitchen floor. Its yellow eyes looked up at him and it leaned closer, suspecting, knowing but still hoping it wasn't true. It lifted its paws on his other leg and pumped its head against his. His hands trembled when he selected his father's number.
No ringtone. No answer.
The room was darker now. The shadows hugged the walls and slowly crept closer. The champagne glasses that his mother put on the table still held the last beams of light of that cold afternoon sun. One final call to his mother's phone.
Nothing.
When his arm fell to his lap, as his phone hit the floor, Pawie crawled into his lap and gently nudged his face with its own. They both knew for a fact they would never see their parents again. The last kiss on Milot's cheek was indeed the last he ever received from his mother. The last caress on Pawie's soft fur was the last one it ever received from their father. Now they were alone, just the two of them.
I can't bring them back like Pawie, Milot thought in his hazy mind. I could try but it wouldn't work. And it wouldn't be right. I have to let them go. The price I will pay. The price I will pay.
It is my birthday after all.