Fuck it. Verinaldo time.
Arnaldo falls for Veríssimo relatively early on in their friendship, but he doesn't pursue his feelings for various reasons---he doesn't know if Veríssimo is into men (and society isn't always so accepting), they're both extremely busy people with demanding lifestyles, and he doesn't want to risk ruining one of the few strong, close relationships he has in a life full of bloodthirsty monsters and bloodthirsty tabloids.
So, Arnaldo dedicates himself to being Veríssimo's "rock", so to speak. He becomes the man's failsafe, the one Veríssimo can always depend on to get the job done and make the ledgers work and swipe the messes under the rug and bandage the wounds clean. Arnaldo is a miracle worker, and no one needs miracles as much as Veríssimo does, burdened as he is with being The Man of the Order.
The years wear on. The love remains. It slowly grows around Arnaldo's heart like vines that creep up trellises, leaves yearning for sunlight; and, fool that he is, Arnaldo doesn't prune the stems. Can't bring himself to. Veríssimo is someone who needs all the love that he can get. Is that being fair to himself? Probably not, but Veríssimo has always chided him for his bleeding heart---still not realizing that he's the very man that Arnaldo has cut an artery on.
Nevertheless, Arnaldo is a renowned actor, which is another way of saying he is a professional liar. Arnaldo expresses his affection for his "dear friend" with deliberate casualness. The loving note in his voice is caught behind the teeth of his dazzling, camera-ready smile. He filters adoration into friendliness, flirts into compliments. He blurs any lingering provocation under the glamor of his smooth-talking persona. Oh there goes that Arnaldo Fritz, always such a charmer! He dances that fine line like the showman he is.
He doesn't expect anything in return, not favors nor feelings. No, Arnaldo simply performs to the best of his ability---he hates to disappoint, after all---and teaches himself to say "I love you" in all manners but spoken. Veríssimo may not love him back, but when the burden of "Veríssimo" inevitably buckles him at the knees, Arnaldo will be here, ready to catch him.
Time passes. The Order beats back the shadows as it always does; its commanding "Senhor Veríssimo" remains steady at the helm. Veríssimo does the work, and soon enough, he becomes the work. Their Reality needs him, so he will be what their Reality needs. He packs up his name along with the notion of "normalcy" and shoves it in a box in the back of his closet, right alongside the rest of his skeletons. He plants himself in the eye of the storm at faces out at the tempest, the one that is always turning, always changing, always tugging ravenously at his coattails.
He fights. He sacrifices. He rebuilds. Nothing is ever the same as it was before. People come and go, the threats morph and evolve. His only true constant is the empty bed he abandons every morning; it's always just as empty whenever he stumbles his way home.
Except, after years upon years of this labor, Veríssimo comes to realize that everywhere he goes...Arnaldo follows. Every time he needs to turn to someone, Arnaldo is already at his side. Every time he calls for help, Arnaldo is the first to answer. Missions. Monsters. Fatherhood. Invariably, Arnaldo helps him shoulder all the burdens.
When Veríssimo finally gets the chance to stop and look back, he gazes upon on everything he has ever held dear, and he finds that Arnaldo's fingerprints are there too.
The realization is bewildering. Stupefying. Why? How? Does the man even realize exactly how much he has done for Veríssimo? Does he realize he's doing it? Arnaldo's unwavering dedication seems to come so naturally, so much so that Veríssimo never noticed it until now. It's a mere fact, wholly deceiving in its simplicity because nothing in their lives is simple. And yet this is. Trusting and confiding in Arnaldo is just like breathing---thoughtless, effortless, necessary for life...
And all this time... All this time, Veríssimo thought that his only constant was his empty bed.
It's any other day, and Veríssimo is sitting in his office, hands folded on his desk. Arnaldo has just left, and the echoes of the man's easy drawl settle smooth in the crevices of Veríssimo's time-tarnished soul.
Oh, he realizes, mild as an atom bomb. The constant. It's always been him.
(Inspiration: The Hustle by Kiltro)
