He's early. Being early gives him some kind of calm, because he feels in control. If he wants, he could stay. Endure those moments before it happens, feed on the indescribable high of anticipation and the arousing tension. But, being early gives him another choice as well. He could leave. He could act on the feeling in his gut, the one that writhes and coils, the one telling him to make it stop before it goes too far.
His hand ends up in his pocket. He feels the business card, stiff to the touch. How the perfectly matte surface of the off white rectangle feels slightly coarse against his fingertips. How the off white but high gloss font feels like polished glass. He knows what it says, it spells out nothing more than a cryptic word. One that etched itself into his mind ever since he laid eyes on it.
Rapture.
He gets lost in remembering. How he found it, in an unmarked envelope on the floor. How the weight of the paper felt as he held it for the first time. How he marvelled about the look of the card, about the choice of font, how the matte and the gloss looked together. How he flipped the card over and saw the small, barely legible, sequence of numbers printed on the back. How he had reached for his mobile, how he had started to enter the number and how he changed his mind.
The card stayed on the kitchen table, untouched but demanding the opposite, until later that evening. It was as if its pleas became louder, more insistent, with the increasing amount of alcohol muddling his system.
The dial tone reached fours beeps. Five. Six. As his thumb hovered over the hang up icon, his mobile in his hand rather than to his ear, they stopped. The beeps stopped, they really did, and became interrupted by a wordless pause. Hesitantly, he brought his mobile back to his ear, and felt a thickness. A pressing, overwhelming thickness although nothing still was being said.
"Hello?"
He held his breath as his body reacted to the voice on the other end. It sounded humming, low and suggestive, despite nothing but a single word had been said. He had felt a shiver down his spine, one that took him over. Not just making his exterior shudder.
"You must be curious," the voice continued. "We can remedy that. If you want."
"I…" His tongue felt stuck to the ceiling of his mouth. In desperation, he tried to whisk his tongue around in his mouth with the intention of being able to swallow. The seconds that passed by acted as painful reminders to how awkward he felt, how the feeling relentlessly multiplied with every passing beat inside his chest.
"You don't have to talk, but I want you to listen," the voice calmly continued, not fazed at all by the silence. "Now that you've called, I want us to meet. Why, you might ask? It's simple. You're curious. You are ready."
The voice died out for a few seconds. He heard a faint gulp, like the owner of the voice had taken a drink.
"I will make a reservation in my name, for your discretion. All you need to do is to be on time. On time with an open mind. Do you think you can do that?"
"I… I can."
"Good." The voice suddenly had a lavish tone, one that dripped of praise. "Good, I like that."
"Wh-where should Iㅡ"
"You are beyond interested. Eager too, that's amazing. This is your number?"
"Yes."
"I'll text you the details. It won't take long."
"Do I have toㅡ"
"All you have to do is to be on time, just like I said. I can't wait to meet you." The voice paused, just briefly, before a small chuckle disrupted the quiet. "Bye."
And just like that, he's brought back by a noise that makes him start. He feels the skin of his face prickle when he notices that the sound came from the outside, a strange embarrassment taking over because he's still alone, still anticipating, still hanging on to the strange expectation that this, whatever this is, might be all that is going to happen. Even though he doesn't want it to.
He takes a few steps into the room and runs a hand through his hair, childishly hoping that the motion will rake away the feeling of discomfort. He's in unknown waters, uncharted territories now, and that makes him more perceptive. More aware. Of not only himself, but his surroundings.
He's seen some hotels in Russia, the cheaper ones having nothing but a bed and a simple chair, but this, is different. The room is ostentatious, almost over the top with its design. The room is half-moon shaped, light and airy, with heavy gray drapes framing the windows. The largest piece of furniture in the room is the bed, placed directly underneath one of the windows. It's also round, he notices, and small specks of light are dancing on the embroidered bed throw. He doesn't have to raise his head to see the chandelier, so he turns to his right to see a lightly coloured sofa shoved into the room's only corner, with a flower arrangement in bold colours on the side table acting as an eye catching contrast.
He continues his slow turn and notices the glass wall, which acts as an invisible divide to the bathroom. He sees the bathtub, the shower behind another glass wall and the toilet. It's like they're on display almost opposite the bed. He cringes. He can't stand the thought of being watched in any way, shape or form, and the glass does nothing for the privacy needed. He decides that he won't use any of the facilities.
To him, the room looks more like a design showroom than an actual hotel room, and the thought that slithers its way into his consciousness coaxes him into not to disrupting the order of things by sitting down or taking up space in any way.
So, he stands. Stands next to a lightly coloured armchair with a thin, probably expensive, blanket thrown over the backrest, as he looks out. Ever so slowly, as dusk claims what the sun left behind, the city comes to life as light after light adds to the illuminating backdrop. Briefly, his mind wanders off and makes up stories to every small flicker he sees, and it feels strangely comfortable. Soothing in a way, for it keeps him occupied.
His eyes try to adjust to the creeping darkness. Instead of stifling the impulse to turn on the lights, he picks up his mobile phone and finds the text. The one that promptly arrived after he'd hung up, the day before.
From: Unknown
I want you at the Akyan, Ulitsa Vosstaniya 19.
The room is booked in the name Nikiforov.
I've asked the front desk to give you a key. Please, make yourself
comfortable. Have a drink, maybe something to eat. I'll
be there at 19:00 sharp, I advise you to be there
earlier. If you're not there when I arrive, I
will leave and the room will be on you.
One more thing.
Dress nicely. I like suits. -V
And then, he hears it. The muted click behind him, the louder noise of the door handle being pressed down and the soft hiss of the door opening. The clack of heels against the floor, he counts them to three before he turns around.
He sees him. He sees him, but not his features due to the darkness of the room. He's backlit, just for a few seconds, before the door closes with a sigh behind him.
"You're here?"
Yes, it's the same voice as before. The same intonation, the same low sound. The same suggestive deepness as he rolls on the 'r'.
"I'm here," he replies breathlessly, still by the window. He feels caught, like an animal of prey being cornered by something unknown to him, unable to decide what it wants with him.
He hears a chuckle, another click-clack of heels tapping the floor before that voice fills up the room in a way that outmatches the dark.
"You want it to be dark? That's fine with me. Take a seat."
So he does. He takes the few steps needed to reach the sofa, and sits down as far into the corner as he possibly can. Once he's seated, he hears it again, the tapping of heels as his unrevealed company approaches him.
"Don't worry, I'll sit here," he hears from the dark silhouette as he moves around and finally sits down opposite the sofa, in that lightly coloured armchair.
The thin ray of light that manages to fight its way in from the street lamps outside doesn't disclose him. It runs diagonally across him, from his left shoulder down to his right hip. Still leaving his features teasingly out of reach.
A thick gray overcoat acts almost as a subtle frame to what's underneath. He's well dressed, undoubtedly so, in a dark suit that acts as a contrast to the armchair. It's hard to tell in the meagre light source, but it's probably three-pieced. Black, maybe.
With a small sigh, he leans back into the armchair, crossing his legs in the process. He gives his tie a pull, probably to loosen it up, before he speaks anew.
"You must have a lot of questions. Please know that I won't answer them. You'll only be given the information I'm about to offer you. Nothing more, nothing less. Do you understand?"
He does. He does understand, but he realises that he is indeed caught. Caught by this man opposite him, shrouded in black.
"Do you understand?" Even though there's a sharpness to his voice, he doesn't sound annoyed. More… determined than anything else.
"I-I, yes! I understand."
"Good. Good." He pauses, for a heartbeat, maybe two. "I'm here because you called, but in a way, you have been chosen. That's why you received the card with the number. I'm here to make an arrangement with you. You hear?"
"Yes, but Iㅡ"
"You don't get to ask questions." He huffs, seemingly amused. "Just listen. I will tell you now what I can offer you. If you choose to decline, I will leave and the number you have used to reach me… well, let's just say this is a once in a lifetime opportunity. Okay?"
He nods, the smallest of movements. It seems like it was enough, since that tantalising voice continues.
"I can offer you anything. All you have to do is ask."
"Anything?"
"Tsk-tsk, what did I tell you about questions? But yes, I will offer you anything. If you obey me. But if you fail to obey me, I'll leave."
He hates that he tenses up, that he lets that inhale sound between his teeth, but he's taken by the words and their meaning. Of course, quid pro quo. He feels stupid that he even considered it to be anything else. He's not sitting opposite a kind-hearted benefactor, he's facing a businessman.
"Oh? No need to react like that," the voice sounds with something of a teasing tone, "I'm no deviant. This is for you after all. Your pleasure."
"Is this about sex?" He poses the question too quickly, without even thinking it through. But he has to know. He wants to know. Although, he already does.
"What if it is?"
Yes. What if it is? It wouldn't make him less interested. Less curious. Less driven to find out more about him, the mystery sitting opposite. Quite the contrary. He turns his head, flustered by the counter question.
"It doesn't have to be. But I would imagine that it would come down to that, eventually. Sex, that is." The voice is almost a whisper now, like the words are either meant just for them or meant to console. To take the edge off what has already been said. But they don't. How could they possibly?
"So," the voice continues, a small creak from the armchair accompanying it, "do we have a deal?"
He tries to get a glance of him, of the dark silhouette, from the corner of his eye but finds himself unable to. So he turns his head and understands that there's just one possible answer. He knows this, as the thin diagonal streak of light makes him see him. Some of him.
An icy blue eye, almost covered by a veil of silver hair. Parted lips that becomes glistening as his tongue slides across them, wetting them in anticipation.
He's beautiful. The way his tie hangs loose, the way the triangular patch of exposed skin underneath it looks fluorescent. The way he, with a boyish smile, just sits and waits seemingly patient but everything about him says that he's seconds away from… what? Taking what he wants, acting on self-gratification? He's a person used to both, taking and being given in excess. That doesn't even need an explanation or a clarification. It's a fact, easy enough to see by just looking at him.
And how he wants to look at him.
"Deal," he hears his own voice whisper, his heart starting to beat violently as his body realises what he's just said yes to. His mind, not following its lead at all. Remaining blissfully oblivious.
"Good." It's the same opulent voice he heard on the phone. "Then… call me whenever you're ready."
"Wait, I need to know ifㅡ"
"You're bad with instructions, aren't you?" The blue and the silver disappears, shrouded by the darkness yet again. He stands up, probably tightens his tie again and possibly buttons his coat.
He panics. He knows too little, he feels, something he's not at all comfortable with. "No, not, well, I… listen, um… Are we supposed to meet here every time?"
"If you want to. I'd imagine meeting on a neutral ground feels better for someone like you. Someone torn between what's right and what's good. I might be wrong." A chuckle. "From now on, it's your choice."
His ears are bombarded by the sound of heels again, growing muffled with every step. Then, he understands that he's about to be left alone, so he scrambles to his feet, steps around the side table and takes a few long strides towards the door. He stops in the rectangle of light, his mind swarming and his chest heaving.
He really is beautiful, undoubtedly the epitome of the word. His build, the way he moves. His energy, that intoxicating confidence that just radiates from him. His looks... oh, his looks.
"Hm?" He stops, that vision of gray and blue. He looks surprised, just for a second, before a smile, the most wonderful toothy smile claims his face. "You can take instructions. That's good to know."
"I'm Yuuri," he blurts out, without hearing the strange compliment from seconds before. Or rather, not registering it. He wants him to know that about him. At the same time, he doesn't want the moment to end.
"Yuuri? I'm Victor."
They share a look before those blue eyes wander off, under the influence of the rest of his body with his head turning and his limbs making him walk away. The steps grow faint, faint, faint until they cannot be heard anymore.
He looks down and finds it to be true, as the darkness envelops him when the door slowly closes. Yes. He takes instructions very well, he thinks to himself, as he slowly undoes his tie.
