Tony dreams about that night, sometimes, the night his world fell apart. He dreams of the colors of the women's dresses, the elegance of the men's suits, things he never sees in these days of gray work coats and battered boots. He dreams of the noise of the music, a mixture of Western ballads, revised folk tunes, and of course, the classics: Balakirev, Tchaikovsky, Borodin. But most of all, he dreams of the boy, the Tsarevich. It hadn't been easy, sneaking away together, but they'd always managed it. They were careful, oh so careful, only spending stolen minutes together in cramped closets or deserted hallways, never lingering for longer than a few kisses. That night, though, they'd been more careless than usual, stayed long enough to get one another's pants around their knees so they could fumble together. They'd barely been finished when the guard had found them, and Tony remembers the panic, the sheer terror that he'd felt, before he realized that being caught out was the least of their problems, now. "Go," Tony remembers the man saying, "Your parents are dead. Run. Go. Hide in plain sight."
And that, that's when Tony always wakes up, sweating despite the cold and hungry in a way he'd never been for the first fifteen years of his life, before that terrible night. He's used it by now, though, used to starving in Stalin's Russia. He'd starved the whole way through the awful years of the civil war, and now, even when things are supposedly more stable, what with Stalin's Five Year Plan fixing the country, he still goes hungry more often than he'd like. He should have given up the game when Bruce left, over a year ago, gone to work for the state, but Tony'll be damned if he ever becomes one of those hopeless souls marching every day to and from the factory. Besides, Bruce had an advantage in his peasantry origin that Tony, son of aristocrats, does not; Bruce could get a job working directly for the politburo and no matter how they looked, they'd never find anything imperial in his background. Even if it has been ten years since
Tony started living this new, hidden life, he still worries at times that someone might recognize him for what he is. The Communists have never, in the years they've been in power, hesitated to have perfectly ordinary citizens executed, so he knows that he, as a remnant of the Tsar's court, would be dead in a heartbeat if anyone with even a little authority ever found out about his past. It's safer this way, and if he does get caught in the act of forging documents or transporting stolen goods, well, hopefully they'll just send him to the labor camps without looking too closely at his citizenship papers or his aristocratic brow.
And anyway, Tony's not sure what he'd do if he ever gave up this life. Not that it's in the cards, anyway. He'd have to strike a gold mine, or more realistically, go into the West. There are a few Russian nobles left, he knows, especially in the shining city of Paris, where they congregate and play make-believe that their world hasn't already come to an end. He could go there, maybe be accepted into their circle. The journey, though, wouldn't be easy, and he'd need a hell of a reason to attempt to make it. Until he finds one, he just gets up every morning and goes out into his city to make a little trouble.
The guards in the city are multiplying, Tony notices one morning as he's pocketing stolen bread from the baker's. It makes him feel better to know he's stealing from the state, instead of from some poor hard-working peasant. These days, everything belongs to the state, even Tony, if he'd let them have him. He finds a quiet alley, out of the wind to eat in, but he has to duck away from his hiding spot halfway through the loaf when one of the guards starts his way. He finds another, even quieter alley to hide in, instead, and curses the state and their policemen.
It's because of all the new factories going up, he knows, this increase, but Tony's a product of the old school, where a man (or a boy, in his case) could build his inventions without the state ever being involved, apart from, perhaps, the Tsarevich smiling brightly whenever he was presented with Tony's latest work. He remembers very clearly the last gift he gave to the Tsarevich, if one doesn't count the orgasm he helped him achieve on that dark, terrible night, the last time they saw each other (which, for the record, Tony generally does not count, because that's just crass and the Tsarevich had been so sweet). It had been a star the size of a large coin, held on a chain. It was very well crafted and by Tony's own hand, but the truly remarkable thing about it had been that it opened like a clamshell and could be wound up to play a soft, sweet lullaby. Music boxes are nothing new, but this one in particular was small enough to be worn as a locket, hidden under a shirt. Secrecy had been key, then, because of their delicate situation and sinful nature, and Tony had worked for months on the little toy, first taking apart and putting together clocks to study how they work, then finding and piecing together the metal and gears of the locket. His finest work, if he does say so himself.
As he finishes up his bread and heads back into the windy street toward the abandoned theater where he does his work, Tony wonders vaguely where the locket is now. Probably at the bottom of a ditch in the middle of the forest, where they dumped the bodies of the royal family. Of course, there are rumors that the Tsarevich managed to escape execution. They're quite prevalent, in fact, and have been ever since the Revolution. He was a sickly little boy, Tony remembers, but he had the most intriguing blonde hair and blue eyes. Not many Russians look like that, so the probability of him hiding in plain sight like Tony has these past years is pretty slim. Still, he may have escaped, and Tony hopes so, because apparently he becomes a complete and total sap every time he even thinks about the Tsarevich. It's a weakness, and Bruce disapproved of the whole thing for safety's sake, but Tony, well, he's always been one to play a dangerous game.
It's odd, because he's been thinking about it this morning, but in the afternoon one of Tony's regular customers brings the rumor up as Tony's finishing up his papers to import goods. Tony's thinking about the stolen cargo of Spanish pears, already hungry again, so he's not really paying attention to the man's gossip. At least, until he hears that name, the one he remembers from ten years ago. Fury.
"Wait, what?" Tony asks, looking up and accidently smudging ink all down his arm. He sounds urgent, he knows, and hates it, but the man doesn't even blink. Apparently this particular rumor is a hot commodity. Everyone's interested in the last Tsar and his family in these gray days and nostalgic for his rule, and since Fury leads the small band of exiled nobles in France, his name is inextricably linked to theirs.
"General Fury," the man repeats, happy to be allowed to tell his story again. "Apparently he's offering a reward now, for anyone that might have information on the whereabouts of the lost Tsarevich. And of course, if anyone actually brings the Tsarevich to him, he's willing to pay double."
"How much?" Tony asks, making sure to keep his tone calm this time. This might be the goldmine he's been looking for and he's got plans already for how to extricate the gold, but he sure as hell isn't stupid enough to show it. He commands a certain amount of respect in this business, because he's been at it so long, but he knows there are plenty of men out there who would slit his throat to take his throne, if he ever lets on any of his tricks.
The man leans in and whispers, "Ten million," and Tony's breath catches, despite his best efforts.
"Well," he says coolly, recovering quickly. "It's a lot, but who even knows where the Tsarevich is. He could be dead, for all we know and that money is just going to go to waste."
"Yeah," the man says, mournfully. He stands and takes the documents that Tony holds out. "Well, best be going, if I want to get to the port in time to meet my suppliers. Thanks for these." He starts to walk away, but Tony hurriedly makes a grab for his arm.
"Forgetting something?" he asks, pointedly, grinning viciously with all his teeth and holding out his palm.
"Right," the man says and slips him the money. It's less than what some of the other forgers in the city charge, but that's one of Tony's tricks of the trade. He charges slightly less, so more people come to him. It's basic supply and demand; Tony knows too much about capitalism to ever be a good communist, but just the right amount to be a fantastic forger. His clear, precise script and steady hand don't hurt, either.
As Tony pockets the money, he thinks about the ten million rubles up for grabs. There's no way anyone's going to just happen across the actual Tsarevich, which gives Tony, with his skills of deception, an above average chance to get that money. It shouldn't be too hard to train someone to pretend to be the Tsarevich and Tony knows way more than most people the kind of intimate details about the royal family that will convince even General Fury of the authenticity of Tony's look-alike. All he has to do is find someone with a bit of acting talent that looks reasonably like the Tsarevich, all grown up, and that, he thinks, that'll be easy.
He's dead wrong, actually. It is absolutely not easy to find a Tsarevich look-alike, not in this town. In America, maybe, where the boys with blonde hair and blue eyes just multiply, he'd have better luck, but in Petrograd, his prospects are pretty narrow. Tony puts out the word, to certain groups only, of course, that he's holding auditions in the old theater and that there's serious money to be made, but of the two dozen that show up, only a handful of them would actually pass for anything like the Tsarevich physically, and of those, only one or two have any skill at all in acting.
"I'll let you know," Tony says, to the last candidate, but the man must know rejection when he hears it, because his eyes narrow and he spits on the ground before stomping off the stage. Tony sighs when he's gone, slumps back in his seat. He'd been so sure this is the path he's supposed to take, but he just doesn't know how he can, with these limited resources.
He thinks about the problem some more, as he's packing up to leave, headed home for the night. Maybe if he goes abroad first, he can find a foreigner to play the part. That seems like something of a travesty, though, an injury to Tony's small bit of nationalism. Perhaps he should try other cities first, Moscow, maybe. And, then, if that doesn't work out, then he can try to lure in some foreigner.
On his way out the door, Tony's so busy thinking about the next steps in his plan that he walks straight into someone and knocks them down.
"Sorry," he says, almost meaning it. He's been having sort of a rough day, and that always makes him more compassionate to the plights of others. Bruce always used to say it was the only human thing about him, a malfunction, perhaps, in the cogs and gears that ran his brain.
He holds out a hand to the man, who's so bundled up Tony can hardly see his face. The man takes it and heaves himself to his feet. He's taller than Tony by a few inches and his face, what Tony can see of it, anyway, is flushed from the cold.
"Are you Tony?" the man asks, muffled from his scarf and Tony smiles as he realizes this man's probably a customer.
"Sure am," he tells him, and fumbles behind him for the latch of the door. "Come on in, and we can talk."
He guides the man back inside the theater, where it's at least slightly warmer and there are tables to write on. Most of Tony's business comes from regulars and their referrals, but this man is no one he recognizes and people usually mention to him when they're sending someone new over, just in case the police get ideas about undercover operations or anything. He does occasionally get walk-ins, however, and if this man is willing to pay, the day might not be such a waste, after all.
"Make yourself comfortable," Tony tells him once they're inside. He himself pulls off his coat and slumps back into his usual chair.
The man takes his time getting undressed, probably due to the fact that he's wearing two coats and at least three scarves.
"Wow," Tony says, admiringly. No wonder he'd been so easy to knock off balance, with all that stuff on. "Did you decide to wear out everything you own today, or what?" he laughs, but the man just says, "Yes," very seriously, and keeps taking off his layers.
That just makes Tony laugh even more, because what the fuck, who is this freak? Then, though, the guy gets all his outer layers off and Tony stops laughing at once. Because, the thing is, this guy has blonde hair and blue eyes. Even on top of that, though, he's also an absolute dead ringer for the Tsarevich. None of the others had even come close, and this man, he could be the Tsarevich's twin. He's a good deal stronger-looking than the Tsarevich ever was, of course, but it's not impossible that a sickly kid could grow up to be perfectly healthy. Or, that's what he'll tell Fury, anyway.
"Are you here for the audition?" he manages, mouth slightly dry from the thought of all those rubles he's going to make.
"What audition?" the guy asks, taking the seat opposite Tony.
Tony thinks fast. If this guy doesn't know about the audition and is just here for Tony's other services, it means he probably also doesn't know anything about Fury's reward. Maybe there's a way Tony can trick him into helping with the con without revealing to him the money at all. Then Tony could have it all to himself.
"Never mind," he says, quickly. "There's just this play. Anyway, what can I do for you…?" He pauses for the guy to supply his name and stares until he takes the hint.
"Oh," he says, blushing slightly. "I'm Steve."
"Steve," Tony says, with rubles in his eyes. He'd never used it except in their private moments together, but the Tsarevich's name had been Stepan. This has to be a sign. "What can I do for you, Steve?"
"Well," Steve says, slowly, like he's not sure where to start. "I'd like to go to Paris."
Here, Tony only barely keeps himself from choking. What are the odds, really? Somewhere out there, someone is definitely looking out for Tony. This whole thing might be even easier than he ever dreamed. He nods, encouragingly for Steve to keep going. Steve just stares at him, though, shy and unsure of how to proceed.
"Any particular reason why?" Tony prompts. He needs all the information he can get, if he's going to work this con from both ends.
"I'm from the orphanage," Steve blurts out, and Tony blinks deliberately at the non sequiter, making the other man blush even worse, before he continues, "I grew up there, I mean. When I was about fourteen, they found me wandering around with blood all over me and no memory of where I'd come from. It was a head injury, they said, but I was pretty dazed when they first brought me in, and I kept repeating one word: 'Paris.' They let me stay there, and I kept working there after I was too old to be one of the orphans, but I've always figured that whatever I was looking for, before I lost my memory, it must be in Paris. And now, they're shutting the orphanage down, building a new one, so I figured this is my chance to see if I can find whatever it is I can't remember."
"Uh huh," Tony says, slowly. "I see. So you don't remember anything at all about who you used to be?"
"Nothing," Steve confirms. He's settled a bit, now that he's gotten his story out, and it's good, because now's the perfect time for Tony to bring up his idea. Subtly, of course, and no matter what Bruce said, Tony can totally do subtle.
"I wish I could help you," Tony tells him, solemnly. "I really do. But I can't."
"Oh," Steve says, quietly, clearly disappointed. He wears his emotions on his face, must never have learned not to, but that, too, suits Tony's purposes. "Well, thanks any-"
"Because the thing is," Tony says over him. "I'm headed to Paris myself. Got two tickets, in fact. But I'm on a mission, see. Have you ever heard of the lost Tsarevich?"
"Of course," Steve says, looking slightly hopeful again, now that Tony's mentioned the tickets.
"Well, I've made it my mission to find him and return him to General Fury, who happens to be living in Paris and desperately wants him back. So, the other ticket, it's for him."
"Isn't he lost, though?" Steve asks, and Tony smiles, winningly.
"I've got an idea or two on where to find him," he answers.
"Where?" Steve sounds intrigued, as any proper Russian should be, and this, this is the point Tony's been waiting for.
"Have you ever looked into a mirror, Steve?" he asks, instead of answering.
Steve looks taken aback for a second, then shakes his head. "The orphanage didn't have one," he explains.
"Pity," Tony tells him, "because you've got a very distinct look. In fact, you look an awful lot like the lost Tsarevich himself. You're about the right age, too, I bet."
"Wait," Steve says, slowly, eyes going wide. "Are you trying to tell me you think I'm the lost Tsarevich?"
"Well," Tony says, reasonably, "you said you don't remember where you came from and no one knows where he went. Who's to say you're not him?"
"Tony," Steve says, and he sounds regretful, for Tony's sake, to have to say it, "I'm not the Tsarevich. That's crazy-talk. I'm sorry."
He stands up to leave, then, and Tony hurriedly stands, too, leans across the table to grab his hand.
"Hold on," he says, urgently. He absolutely cannot let this man leave. He needs him. "How about this: come to Paris with me. We'll go see Fury, and he'll obviously know right away whether you are or aren't the Tsarevich. If you're not, you can stay in Paris and try to find whatever it is you think is there for you and I'll keep looking for the real Tsarevich. But if you are, well, then you'll know exactly what you've been searching for this whole time. What do you say?"
Steve thinks it over for a long minute, then takes a deep, unsteady breath. He looks Tony right in the eyes and says, "Okay. It's a deal."
"Great," Tony says, and does a little happy dance on the inside. He's got a plan and he's got the guy, and soon, so soon he can almost taste it, he'll have the ten million rubles, too. "Next stop: Paris."