They’d met while Hassan had been vacationing in London, years before the virus hit. What had drawn Hassan to Rui, at first, was just how much he’d looked like Figueiredo. And Hassan had spent months tracking Rui’s family lineage and comparing it to what the world knew of Figueiredo’s. When Rui had wanted no part of that research, Hassan had begged him with how can you be so selfish and don’t you see that you could be proof of something huge and wonderful? Hassan had published his findings in a journal anyway, supporting his thesis that this universe was a younger sibling of the one where Figueiredo had created the Farsight. Maybe new universes were popping up all over the multiverse all the time. It had taken a while for Rui to forgive and trust him after that because fuck theoretical physics, Hassan had betrayed him and written about his life when all he wanted to do was be a nobody like everyone else.

It had helped that Hassan’s paper had gone absolutely nowhere. Like, even physicists hadn’t read it, never mind the average person who enjoyed a life of semi-retirement by age twenty-five since basically every industry was automated.

Rui had wanted to make sure that Hassan loved him, and that he wasn’t just looking for some Figueiredo knock-off. They’d patched things up—Hassan had sprung for some MDMA intimacy therapy, and they’d cried for hours in a therapist’s office with Hassan explaining he’d only wanted the world to see how incredible Rui was—and they’d moved to Oxford for Hassan to take over the Predictive Intelligence Bureau. They’d enjoyed a few quiet years before the pandemic hit. In the early days before the quarantine when the sick had flooded the hospital, healthcare workers had died in record numbers. Rui’s mom lost her battle with the virus. Even still, he wouldn’t stay home. He’d needed to help.

“The disease shreds the vocal cords,” Hassan said, his mouth hammering his words with flat anger. “He couldn’t even speak by the time he’d died. We couldn’t say goodbye.”

He drained his glass and abruptly pushed off the couch, leaving me and Yusuf alone. Jesus. The horror movie of this alternate version of myself replayed in the empty theater of my head. And I thought the idea of seeing Yusuf shot in front of me was bad enough. I reached for his hand and squeezed.

“I’m sorry,” Yusuf whispered. “I know I didn’t do anything to you. I know I have a tough time talking about my feelings. But, holy shit, I would never. Never.”

“I know. I’m sorry too. For everything. Or nothing. Just—thanks for being here with me.”