Disclaimer: I don't own Capcom or Resident Evil.

So I'm guessing most of you would have played Resident Evil 6 by now and it is in my defense and delight to say that Chris seems very much officially 'attached' to Piers (I sort of saw this coming before the game appeared) and I have no qualms with that. However, what comes with that is quite a pain for me because while I support this for a fact, it becomes increasingly difficult for me to look at this fiction with a straight face and devote as much emotions as I could have initially. Don't get me wrong, I still adore Chris with Wesker, but... you can say I'm in an overwhelming state caused by the strong foundation Chris and Piers has formed. That campaign didn't left me crying for god knows how many days for nothing.

With that said, I'm just going to say it will become expectant in my perspective that fans would drop this traditional pairing for the official pair now. No worries about that. I'm striving on my part to bring this fiction to its best and after this, I assure you there'll be a tribute to Chris and Piers.

Okay, enough of this self-encouraging talk. Regarding this chapter, it's going to lose some of the original jovial spirit seen in the first two chapters but it's all coming back in the next one. This chapter was really... a pain to write, considering how much I have to tell myself to leave the heavy emotional aspect out first. I'm not going to linger back into the dark side. But this is an important chapter as it helps with the build-up, especially since I've made it clear to myself I'm not going to drag this story.

So thanks for all the wonderful reviews from you awesome readers and I hope this chapter satisfies you as much as the previous did.

Why Mr. Red you might say.

If the default templates available for his online journal didn't decide to come in the forces of either yellow with purple or blue in black, he wouldn't have spent time searching and finally settling with the simple white-paged red font design that was much more pleasing to his eye. As reclusive as he currently is, his user member profile page is virtually a piece of blank slate; no gender, date of birth, hobbies, biography, avatar or whatever else sectioned up there. If you had a chance to look at his "Edit Profile Page", there were endless prompts to encourage him to "Enter your interest here!" or "Tell us how old you are!" so on and nagging forth. Only a bolded username stands on the top left corner of his public page, "24747867437" it showed.

And since it would look absolutely ridiculous for Mr. A to address him as Mr. 24747867437, Chris had assumed the red font was how his nickname Mr. Red came about, though coincidentally and ironically at the same time, short for his family name.

However if Mr. A was indeed a dead man risen from the dead, could chances be that he might have possibly known the person behind this journal was Chris? Could that be the reason why he is peculiarly interested in every event happening around the younger male? And if so, did he return to take revenge on Chris, or to prolong his agony by haunting him? What would he be plotting then? A new kind of biological weapon? Something worse than Uroboros perhaps? Would he think about taking over the world by turning everyone into mindless creatures again?

Deep in the abyss Chris ran, there was no light on either ends of the path but he knew something was coming for him. His heart pumped harder as he lost the sprint his youthful days could take, panting out of breath when his legs gave way to his exhaustion. Fear has never caught up with him this intense, not when he is the hero "Chris Redfield", a name that could even send a shiver down a zombie's back. However now he is starting to feel the strain of his name bringing upon him, like a burden, an expectation he needs to live up to, even if he did not want to. It hit a spot triggering the purpose for all those past missions he had put himself out there and what they were exactly for. It didn't seem like he was doing it for himself or perhaps only in the initial stages it did so but somehow as expected, it still evolved into a duty to save the world in the end instead.

Do you know what that feels like?

Like a stray pup running in the wind, chasing after kittens soft like dandelions but somehow somewhere along the way eventually leashed to pursue wild cats like tigers and lions not out of thy will.

This was it. Aged as he was, Chris felt his resolve finally breaking as something grabbed him hard on the shoulder in his deceleration. He hissed at the brutality, forced to turn around where a pair of hateful sunglasses reflected an image of him on its lenses. Struggling now, violent and vigorous, the hand continued to grip him tight while the other pair laced in leather clasped his neck instantly. The brunette panicked when the hold tightened, cutting the air supply painfully slow as his hands wandered to his neck, frantically pulling the assailant's hand from choking him. Silence it was; no muffled chuckles or sadistic smirks, no incoming snicker from the attacker in his expectation in fact. Then the hold stilled, at a degree where Chris was still uncomfortable but no longer killing. His face burned red, eyes slightly bloodshot from the panic earlier while his breathing tuned to take it slow and deep. Other than the figure glowing before him, darkness was his only comrade and in plain words, it was a shitty one.

Chris shut his eyes tight. His heart is crying now and he doesn't want his eyes to be doing the same.

Why can't he ever run away from this?

It was then the softness of the back of a hand caressed the side of his cheek. Though comforting, he convinced himself otherwise and his body tensed, like a child afraid of the thunderstorm that would soon come after the peace. With his sight barren of light, the sensitivity of his skin heightened as he felt the tip of a fingernail, probably index, tickled down his face, along his skin and bone. He shivered at the contact, still refusing to meet eyes and bit his lower lip tightly, resisting the temptation to look at the familiar face he once eagerly woke up to. That was no longer what he wanted, he didn't want to recant those old forsaken memories anymore. Why did they even continue to exist somewhere inside him? His brain could use the excess space for something else, something more useful even, but why? Why did it still retain these useless, painful, stupid longing moments that were nothing but a lie created by his old captain?

Smack!

The pain was so sharp Chris had to jolt with his eyes staring wide open.

He knew it. He just fucking knew it.

"Ten minutes to the next class, Chris. You don't want to be late for that one."

He didn't just sleep during his lunch again, did he?

He was aware he had such occasional bouts of tendencies and had thus engaged Modrina's helpful service to slap him awake as a measure if encountered so. Nodding off during daytime was considered paralysis as to his nighttime rest, it could even let him sleep through war without knowing it happened. Some kind of sleeping disorder Jill once mentioned, though it wasn't until the death of a certain close figure to him that he realized he had it. Despite bemused, Modrina agreed, though packaged a surprise the very first time Chris used her service. The lady packed quite a punch, leaving a faint sear on the male teacher's face imprinted until the end of the day. Subsequently, she realized the need to control her strength used once she saw the impact she left on her colleague's cheek. Albeit much milder now, the destructiveness isn't under-compensated. At times, Chris would whine about being awakened in this manner even though he was the one who suggested it, but he knew without the sheer act of surprise, or pain in some cases, he wouldn't have come out of his stasis.

However today, he doesn't know what could be worse than this. An attempted murder in the madman's afterlife in his dream interrupted by the brute force of Modrina's success-driven wakeup call. If he had known otherwise, he could feel his jaw breaking if she had just exerted a tiny bit more force. Could this be considered double murder?

"Can't you cut me some slack on the force today, Modrina?" The yawning teacher stretched his back, whining like the kid who hates broccoli in his class while he nursed the sting.

"Then find a way to wake up by yourself, Mr. Redfield," she laughed as she picked her materials up from her desk. "You have two weeks to figure that out when the holidays starts next week."

Groaning, Chris quickly grabbed his teaching aids and stacked them neatly in a pile. There is a silly grin welding inside him every time he touches the crayons and color pencils he brings to class, a child inside whom he almost forgot residing somewhere in all the debris and rubbles the war he has been through brought. He was given art classes to handle too, apparently due to his popularity among the children. It has been over a month since he began teaching at Tiraspol and he really appreciated the peace it brought. No more running, hiding or taking covers from incoming gunfire or viruses. Not even phone calls or telegrams hoarding him off into the field in less than thirty minutes. It was more than a 180-degree change, four times of that sounds more like it.

If you also include the lack of time, sleep, freedom, privacy or generally life compensated, then it should be about ten times combined.

What's even better? Holidays!

Holidays that are there for a reason and one that he can actually take on the very day with the rest of the nation. When was the last time that ever happened to him? Like the upcoming two weeks of summer break. No one knew what the hell was summer break back at base so to speak. They only worked their asses off and burned their skin in the sun when required out. This is going to be the first summer break that Chris has ever had since high school and better yet, he's going to enjoy it in Paris.

Oh yes, you cannot imagine the exhilaration on Yurkov's face when Chris affirmed the summer break weeks ago. Even Chris had to be amazed that a simple trip, one that he didn't even have to spend a bani on, with the chef could bring him this much joy. When he watched the older male skipping around when he told him so, the teacher couldn't forestall a gush of merriness that he lightly embraced the senior before joining him in some small silly dance steps. Yurkov nearly suffered a brain hemorrhage from it.

With all the comfort setup here, Chris has slowly begun to lose the angst he bears for B.S.A.A. He became negligent with the emails he used to look forward to from the organization and now only eagerly anticipates Claire's replies instead. The result of his priority change was a tedious but alas complete remittance of the due paychecks he earned, though finally receiving them wasn't as fulfilling as Chris would have thought initially. Starting somewhere around mid July, he stopped swearing at them in their communications too, much to his surprise. A better phrase to describe the phenomenon would be "he simply can't be bothered anymore". His mood has significantly chirped and this is probably due to the change of his responsibilities too. The world no longer sits on his shoulders, only kids are. And believe it or not, kids are most of the time way easier to deal with than problematic correspondences or flesh-eating zombies even for a trained professional such as himself. Occasionally Chris gets to play military with them as well, pulling ranks and commands on his little corporals and soldiers. The kids love their little role-play in class but above all, the one they truly love at this point is actually Chris.

"Fall in, troops!"

That's Chris' little replacement of the good old-fashioned 'good morning good afternoon' crap.

"Attention! Salute!" The class monitor brings his hand to his forehead and the rest follows attentively. His high-pitched child voice sounded so adorable Chris had to muster all of his willpower to not cackle during their drill.

"Rest, soldiers." Chris nodded in acknowledgement as soon as everyone saluted, despite rather sloppily especially amongst the girls because they couldn't stop grinning and giggling. Once settled down, the teacher turned to write the topic for the day's art lesson on the whiteboard while contemplating his delivery to the class. "Alright, soldiers. Are you ready?"

The crowd cheered and one bravely asked, "What are we going to do today, Mr. Redfield?"

"Today I will need all of you to use your choice of weapons to map out our base design, okay? You will need to draw one part of the school that you like the most. When everybody has completed the task, all of you will need to come up here and tell the class why is this your favorite spot and what do you enjoy doing there. Be sure to color them up good! The best drawing gets a promotion."

At the delightful sound of 'promotion', the recruits began buzzing among themselves, all eager to win as their teacher starts individually handing them clean pieces of papers to work with. When he went for the second round to distribute the art materials he brought, the class immediately quiet down as his students began to sketch their imaginations. Chris then retreated to his seat and started sketching a simple piece of his own as a prepared measure if any student were to ask what he had drawn too. Looking out to the window on his right, he never knew the afternoon sun could be this warm and welcoming before. It felt right… an unknown calmness bringing a smile to the corner of his lips.

A peaceful reset to his bruised life.

Minus the existence of Mr. A.

"Motherfuc—" Chris cussed at the screen the moment he read the loaded screen after he stepped home. When did this routine of plastering himself on the computer started? Quite frankly, he doesn't remember.

He had so regretted the start of that correspondence with Mr. A.

The teacher found himself unable to stop the electronic written war with him even though he was clearly on the losing end. Dropping his canvas carryall onto the couch, he slid onto his chair and immediately logged into his journal, well aware of the notification awaiting him. The routine has been looping as of late, and Chris didn't see any save point turning him around either. Once it started, the impact on every single word Mr. A used magnified, and that left a very frustrated Chris Redfield fighting to fend his stand and dignity.

So what is exactly biting him right now? Here's a recap of the most recent post:

/

Date: August 04, 2010 Wednesday
Time: 10:49PM (GMT +3:00)
Mood: Peaceful on the outside, nasty on the inside

Work has been treated me fairly well, Mr. A. Sometimes I think your concerns deeply reflect the actions of a stalker. I don't speak your fancy language and I certainly don't beat about the bush like you do. In fact, I don't like the way you talk at all.

Because of your interference, you do realize I have very much stopped writing anything that has been going on in my life, which was the main purpose of your audience and my journal. If so, why don't you move along and find someone else to harass in your golden throne? I am finally at ease with myself losing my past and now you just want to bring it all up like you actually know about it? Don't mock me.

If you want an answer knowing if I am finally fighting for what I want, though I don't know why you are so concerned with that, then I think I've found it. Clearly, it isn't you and we are not about to have a discussion on that.

So please, get on with your life. Go mess with someone else's life or something if you need a quick chatter. I don't exactly intend to deal with your bullshit. And since you like postscripts so much, there's one for you right at the bottom. Be sure to check it.

It's not like we are ever going to know each other in person. I don't even understand the point of us doing this. So you know what, I think this conversation is over. I hope, by the time I return from my vacation, you'll be done with me as well and be on your way.

Yours, (though I don't actually really mean 'yours')

Mr. Red.

P.S. If only you were less than a-tenth of the asshole you are, we probably don't have to end it this way.

/

What made Chris write that postscript he couldn't quite say. However it delivered the purpose of his message and that was good enough for him. He really did mean it too. If only he didn't have to be such an asshole, things could have probably taken a different path down. Making enemies isn't his forte but perhaps it is for Mr. A. There was something Mr. A possessed behind the screen, a weird kind of attraction, if not fatal, and it wasn't something the retired fighter would admit to. Then, there was Mr. A. Instead of accepting the concluding piece, he chose otherwise.

/

Anonymous said on:
August 05, 2010 Thursday 02:17AM (GMT +3:00)

An eager piece, Mr. Red. Bravo, bravo. However if I may, I'll have you know that I didn't know that we got on the wrong foot.

I am not interfering with your life. I'm simply commenting on it. You could have shrug me off much as what you have been doing for months but you didn't continue. Eventually I got under your skin and your best defense is to blame me for it. Don't you suppose that sounds like a woman complaining about the man who had gotten her pregnant? You're pointing fingers when you actually play a substantial part in the situation.

I may not be reading pieces about your life anymore, but your disposition has definitely intrigued me in more than one way. It's my way to understand more of you and through this angry little conversation we're having, it seems to be doing its job well. This is entirely not a harassment, I assure you.

And if you realize, you're only saying you've found your supposed-motivation as a means to shut me up. I have no qualms with that but I'm not so certain if you want to deceive yourself. Not once have I deliberately brought up your past, or the assuming past, on my free will. It was brought into the picture because you mentioned it, you started it. How many times have you pointed your fingers at me for the course of your own action? I may have to start charging you if you continue to let this bad habit of yours go on.

Besides, I do not understand why you would assume I do not have a life just because I read your journal. Are you uncomfortable with the slight attention of an outsider? I thought that was what you desired and might even fancy it. And for the fifth time, I am not messing with your life. Why would you accuse me of something such as that? I didn't think I could have the capacity with just mere words, or perhaps you are far more weak-willed than I thought you are.

Don't get me wrong, this is not a friendly exchange but neither a hostile one. We're just two complete strangers who happen to stumble upon one another in the vast population of billions on the Internet. That happens to be the only uniqueness in my opinion, which I could remotely relate to as a piece of 'kismet' between us. But I suppose you'd probably never thought of it that way, would you? Don't start now. With the limited understanding you possess, you might not understand my point anyway.

Indeed, it is unlikely that we would ever see each other in person however, we must be clear of one thing though: who exactly is the asshole here between us? We should keep the tabs clear so that we at least know who should be the one apologizing for being the difficult party should it ever stir us up someday.

P.S. How differently would you have wanted us to progress?

/

Chris slapped his palms against the surface of his desk and pushed his body up from the chair, fuming at the returned contents. He hastily marched into the kitchen and grabbed an energy bar from the snack basket, eagerly munching away as his features crumpled to a state of anger. The words continued to cycle in his mind and he couldn't stop thinking about what Mr. A had said. How did that asshole manage to turn everything he said around in a blink of an eye? Better yet, why does he always have to suffer at the hands of the grammar polices? It does not bite him in the ass enough to bleed but rather to irritate the single shit out of him. The teacher munched harder at the wheat, venting the suppressed frustration in a child-like manner. Some habits just don't change.

Teeth gripping the remains of the almond-flavored bar, the teacher grabbed a hold of the cold pizza in his fridge and slapped it against the glass turntable inside the microwave appliance. His temper hadn't gone down one bit. He set the pizza to heat for about a minute while his mind continued conjuring a plan of attack. The simple victory he sought for was to completely render the other party speechless in his defense which in his case, seems like the hardest thing to do. So grabbing a glass of water dispensed from his kettle, he leaned against the kitchen counter and mused, questioning his need to triumph over the tyrant.

Was he really that much of a tyrant? Chris couldn't say.

He found himself recalling the dream earlier during lunch today. Then he tried looking at himself from a third-person's point of view to perceive his responses with Mr. A. Combining the details of everything together, it resulted in an unhealthy and twisted conclusion.

He is still thinking about the dead man.

If so, then how was he in any way, different from how he used to be in Portland?

Is he about to accuse Mr. A of being a self-centered, arrogant and critical person like the person he used to comment in the past?

Is he resenting Mr. A's similar knack for observation as that same person because it always sees right through him?

Is he… talking to Mr. A because it felt as though he was talking to—ding!

Literally 'saved by the bell' Chris Redfield. You almost walked right back into your own grave.

He should simply just not reply it. Ignore it. Chris' mind has the most logical solutions he could use to save himself from the humiliation but the other organ known as the heart decides otherwise. When it comes to matters of the heart, the teacher knows they are most irrational at all times. A good example was a time when he received a phone call at three in the morning from the RPD when he was already all scrunched up in his warm bed. The captain had called to ask him a few simple questions pertaining to the homicide incident they were working on but all the young male could recognize then was 'why the hell was the captain still working at three in the morning'? Frustrated, and obviously worried, he leaped out of bed, grabbed a jacket and headed out the door after answering those question quickly. Despite the heavy pour, the lack of his car keys and proper insulation in the autumn night, he managed to grab a couple of wraps from a supper stand nearby the station before he ran into the building, all drenched and shivering. He remembered the captain twitching an eyebrow as he stepped out of his office and watched him dripping water all over the station floor, grumbling at the young male for his sudden appearance which he almost mistook for a thief without intellect. His leader made him stayed where he was and returned with a dry towel to soak the rain up, face still rather composed as it portrayed. But Chris had known better; even under that indifference, he could tell the captain was somewhat worried but glad he came.

How was he that certain?

His captain was never good at hiding his expression without his sunglasses. His eyes gave it all away, every single time.

And you have just witnessed the power of heart over the mind.

Chris cringed at the over-a-decade-old memory, shuddering at his innocence then. Innocent, but blissful. They were times when he didn't really have a care in the world; the only focus he had was his job, his life and there was nothing else. When the captain became an addition to it, the warmth in his lonely nights, he thought his life was complete. Well although having a man to warm his bed wasn't exactly what he had planned, that man was beyond everything he could dream of. He held Chris' hand and guided him along his growing steps, silently giving him shelter so he could always fall back when he needed to. His subtle actions have always spoken much louder than the words he used since the latter could be as sharp as a blade. His captain was inclined to live on the principle 'actions speaks louder than words'. With that, Chris' affection grew deeper in his care, not for the need to define their connection, but simply the need to be with him.

Dammit. He still walked right back into that pitch-black void called a grave, didn't he?

Said male squinted his eyes, wearing a very typically irritable expression where his eyebrows frowned as well. He took the pizza out of the microwave and a beer from the fridge before settling in his living room. He then loaded a rented movie into the player and scrolled to where he last left off. Distraction. Chris needed that bit of distraction. He was always doing well with his life until Mr. A intruded. Him sticking his tongue on the frozen lamppost out of curiosity was what got him stuck in the first place. And right now, he was just letting history repeating itself. His ill curiosity has him at a spot where he knew he did not want to back off but neither did he had the courage to move forward either. He should perhaps give the journal a break like he mentioned, things might die down a little with his disappearance. The distance between Mr. A and him was exactly what he needed.

Or maybe, he just wanted proof to know that Mr. A isn't who he thinks he is.

Absentmindedly, he continued watching the movie until the credits rolled. He wasn't sure what the movie had actually been talking about, probably because he had his mind elsewhere half of the time. Picking up the trash, he headed back for the kitchen to dispose them off before he went to clean his hands by the sink. When there, he rested his forehead with a loud thud against the cabinet mounted from his kitchen walls, letting the cold water run through his hands as he forced a hidden tear back. His mind was blank as it could get, but it didn't stop the lament from gathering. Despite there was nothing going through his mind, he couldn't help but feel the loneliness in his apartment. Was it the fact that today's Thursday yet Yurkov wasn't here? Was it the lack of the figure whisking around his house, whispering kind endearments and treating him like the person he deserved to be treated missing at this moment? Did he miss Yurkov because he missed him or… Slowly backing into the living room, he switched the television off and stepped into his bathroom for a cold shower. He needed to cool that nonsense he just spent digging in his memory vault right off before it triggered another post-Redfield-epidemic.

Homework. The squad's homework would be a good start to deter himself from thinking the unnecessary. His little sunshines, the cheerleaders of his present life.

And boy, the sun sure colored him on a perfect Friday morning. The last day before the start of the anticipated summer break. Chris rose from his bed in high spirits, feeling the freshness of a new day, discarding the stale memories of yest—erm, what? He does not intend to relive the crap of yest—erm yeah you get the point. When done with making his bed, basically that just means lining his quilt in place, he decided that he would put on something prim and nice for the evening. A sudden spur kicked and he supposed he would make that trip to Simţire for dinner tonight. Someone would be more than pleased to see him there.

So a white-patterned maroon v-neck Henley with pale khaki pleated trousers will do for the day. Chris remembered the Henley was a gift from Claire during one of the Christmas' they had spent together. She always had an eye spotting clothes that would suit her brother charmingly, the elder sibling was sure. Putting on something as charismatic as that, the teacher was ready to impress ladies, if not men like Yurkov. He cleaned up really well, with a soft touch of wax to the hairstyle he had since two years back.

Maybe I should consider dating.

Chris told himself so when he stood before a mirror, running his thumb and index across his scrubby chin. The wrinkles, the eye bags and aged skin were definitely not a sign of a desirable man. Marriage wasn't a topic he ever stepped into and now he still isn't ready to. Cohabiting sounded better, but that would be a selfish part of him to keep a woman by his side yet not giving her an official status to be his wife. Then, there is the choice of men. Well in spite same-sex marriage applicable, the teacher hasn't considered it. The ex-fighter had already spent more than a-third of his life being alone, he doesn't see the need to start filling up that gap now. However, if he doesn't start now, when does he intend to start it?

Let nature takes its course, they said.

He sees a perfect bachelor at the end of his road now. This man likes him. This man adores him. So, why exactly is he hesitating?

How long does he intend to live in the shadows of the past?

Crap. Oh what the hell, right?

Chris quickly shaved the stubble after he was done with his shower earlier. Right, a restart must happen. This is a brand new phase of the retired man. He's got a new place, a new environment, a new job and now he only needs a new start to the last missing piece of his broken past, a new hope.

This doesn't have to be official. It is just going to be a leeway he allows. The other party doesn't have to know it… until he feels ready to say it.

"Do you think you can drop me by the grocery stall on your way, Chris?" Modrina collected her tote from her seat as she watched her fellow colleague ready to leave for the day. Mr. Redfield returned a friendly gaze and nodded, pushing his chair in and signaled to depart before they should catch the sight of the principal, which was the last thing the man wanted to spoil his so-far-so-fabulous day. All the students have already left the school compound to start their holidays and right now, it was his turn to do the same too. Making way to his vehicle, the evening wind gently fluttered over his skin, a peaceful taste of solace creeping over his unnerving tension. Butterflies in his stomach. He quietly smiled to himself, it feels unbelievingly like junior high all over again.

"What are you smiling about?" The Croatian teacher curiously asked having noticed the teacher's bizarre high spirits for the entire day.

"Nothing. It's just the summer vacation. It's my first actually." He responded the question confidently, eyes staying still on the road while he hovered through the street.

"That's one of the benefits to be a teacher, I'd say."

Talking to Modrina is one of the things Chris really enjoys. She speaks as a friend would, a real civilian so to speak. No talks of wars, tactical plans, armory, weaponry, bio-data or whatsoever. Just a regular conversation or gossips between them such as student welfares and social talks at times, sometimes even the price increment of groceries. Looking at her reaction to the smallest things in society as compared to what he has faced that could possibly end the world in an apocalypse, Chris smiles at the insignificance to him despite the heated argument among others like her. It stilled a fraction of realism in him that didn't differentiate him from other humans leading a normal life, and he was at long last a part of it now. He continued listening to her marriage plans she had discussed with her fiancé, feeling happy for this wonderful lady beside him who has found a piece of her heaven. Having someone in her life was similar to an empty garden blooming full of roses; it was only beautiful because both existed at the same time same place. Chris wondered how would that feel if he had the same privilege as her. His mind continued to drift into the unknown future; a photograph of him and someone close sitting on the bed frame among the other pictures, a morning he wakes seeing the same person coming through his door to greet his morning, or simply the ability to wait in the evening for someone to come through his door. Just having the extra sound in his apartment chased the blues away. However he couldn't put two cents in the rough vision, he couldn't quite place a face on the invisible person in it.

"… -ris, just drop me here will do!" A voice drew him back to the surface.

He jammed hard on the brakes and the car came to an immediate stop, slightly throwing both teachers forward even with the moderate speed he kept up. Modrina clutched her tote, returning a look at Chris as she unbuckled the seatbelt strapped over her. Clearly the teacher has been distracted all this while, even though she spent the last few minutes chattering nonstop.

"Sorry 'bout that," Chris apologized for the impolite stop.

"I think I should be the one sorry for going on nonstop about my wedding. Are you feeling alright? You seem to be in a daze."

The male teacher nodded, smiling weakly, "Yeah. I'll see you when the holidays end."

"Already chasing me out for your date tonight?" Modrina laughed, ready to alight the vehicle. "She's one lucky girl, Mr. Redfield."

Chris watched her leave when she returned the car door to him, a loud slam locking it in place before she knocked on the window panel.

"Have a pleasant night, Chris. Enjoy it!" And inside Chris thought, what are the chances of this being a date wouldn't endanger him?

Not a single chance.

A pair of strong hands wrapped around his arms the moment he stepped foot into Simţire. It was barely a few minutes since he had parked his Wrangler at an open lot not too far away where he bumped into one of the evening staff from the restaurant. Together they paced towards the same destination, mostly being Chris listening to the staff talking about how busy his school life has been as well as the restaurant. The young chap was barely twenty he recalled. At twenty, he was well already in the Air Force where he pretty much concluded that would have been his career path before life decided otherwise. As they approached the building, the usual staff stood by the reception tending to awaiting customers in line before she saw the both of them from a distance. She hustled the staff to get changed and help out before throwing an arm around the teacher, briefly hugging the friendly face before the Russian bear caught sight of it from his kitchen, and kept tumbling out of his workstation.

That left him here, standing by the entrance of the restaurant when the chef clad in white charged straight at him, smiling in all glory as he threw his arms around him. The owner ignored the queue that was spreading like wildfire and pulled his angel in, quickly settling him at his usual table. Chris felt embarrassed by the gesture watching searing eyes glaring at him, unaware of his super VIP status granted by the chef himself. Nonetheless he was in, and once again at the balcony deck watching small puddles rippling the riverbed, the rain gently pouring as soon as he entered.

"What a pleasant surprise, darling! You're looking really wonderful tonight." Yurkov immediately noted the difference in appearance, pulling a chair after deciding to skive the next five minutes or so.

"Don't you have to be in the kitchen?" The teacher sighed, knowing his presence was clearly a distraction, if not disturbance.

"Can't I take a little break?"

"It's your restaurant, you have the say." Then the young chap from before swung by his table and poured him a glass of water, smiling warmly before he stepped away, not wanting the stare from an obvious company.

Yurkov spent the next five minutes endlessly blabbering about Paris and the things he intended to bring Chris to do. His itinerary was so full Chris started to worry if he might be deprive of sleep in between. But seeing the joy the chef plastered across his face, he knew he definitely made the right decision to join him. It was always a comforting sight to see the older man easily contended by his mere presence. It's not an everyday thing to find one capable of satisfying another in every way and yes, he has made a decision, hasn't he? No rush. No haste. The chef would be thrice as nervous as he is now if he is aware of his intentions. Just take it easy, Chris. Breathe, it's just like it has always been.

Let it all go.

No one is going to hurt you anymore.

"Darling?" The sound of the endearment brought Chris back to the reality at hand. As he tried to assure him being fine, he noticed the hand grabbing his with another laying over the back of his hand, gently patting and caressing his overly trained hand. While instinct almost made him pull his hand back, Chris wanted to stay through his determination to change, and that is to 'give it a shot'. So he tried to relax, though still completely rigid under his touch and left his hand there, right where it was, sandwiched between Yurkov's hands, whose eyes looked intently at him. The chef let his lower hand thread his fingers through the seams of Chris' and waited for a withdrawal reaction, but none came. His heart started pounding into his head, was this all part of his imagination?

"Yes?" Chris asked tenderly, eyes slightly averting from Yurkov's intense stare. Okay this felt way before junior high, maybe even middle school.

When the word 'yes' spread into his ears, Yurkov almost flushed a deep shade of red having over a dozen of possibilities running through his mind. Could it be that god has finally answered his prayers over the last few months? Has his longings been returned at long last? Is that 'yes' a yes to everything he has been praying for? He's right here, seated right next to his angel, holding his hand and feeling the heat they shared. This isn't a dream. He could feel a small fidget from the tensed muscles in his fingers. This isn't an illusion. He could reach out and hold him in his arms right now because he is right there. The hand he is holding is real. It's not him holding his own hand, pretending it is the hand belonging to his angel. Nervous, he gripped the hand slightly tighter, not wanting this moment to part. He savored the silent connection, for the lack of better words to tell Chris how much this meant to him. It isn't the time to think if this could be a real invitation to an unexplored future, just accepting the momentary affection is more than enough to satiate his lonely nights in the weeks to come.

But it won't be needed. There's Paris.

A holiday for two. Yurkov has plans of his own.

His spirits couldn't be lifted any higher ever since the few hours ago when he had the chance to hold Chris' hand again. Although it was short, it felt like an eternity then. Thoughts filled with cheese such as two mature men just staying together leading a simple headstart set his heart blooming with hopes and roses. Looking at Chris still seated at the balcony waiting for him, he realized he had lost all that courage and spunk he usually had around the American. Things are different now and he doesn't want to look like he is still fooling around. His course of pursuit has taken a complete change in direction and suddenly he is holding the one chance in his life he has been fighting for. That was how much Chris had meant to him since the first time he had laid eyes on the brunette. Those eyes captivated all of him. They had so much to tell and Yurkov wanted to be on the receiving end of it all, wanting to replace the sorrow hidden in those deep gray eyes. The silhouette of Chris basking under the moonlight cinched a twist in his heart, there was just something hauntingly beautiful about his battered soul making him want to embrace him and never let go. A singular trail of his cigarette smoke carried by the wind aged his company furthermore, the silence in the darkness sweeping away the need for words of arrival or courtesy. Uncontrollable, Yurkov wrapped his arms across Chris' chest from behind, nuzzling his chin along the nape of his neck as he pressed a cheek against his jaw. A dream alas, unexpected in his wildest dreams.

"Chris." He loses his usual playful tone, replacing it with the cords of a mature 45-year-old should be.

His recipient doesn't say a word, but the skin under his touch is still rigid and anxious.

It brought him back to the night when they were drunk and fuzzy, hugging and stripping in Chris' apartment when he got wind of his residential address. The heat and passion reliving this moment but now all shy and hidden by the fear to break out of its shell. They are sober now, it's no errant play. Everything they do now is of consent and free will.

Chris remembered this voice which he hadn't heard since the first time he met the Russian chef. The sultry velvety voice spilled a shiver hugging his lower back, rising up his vertebrate in a slow momentum. There is no inference; not the coyly British accent that once danced along the narrow of his cartilage, or the angsty exhale of a panicky desperation mixed with desire enfolding his lips. It's not the dry sensation of want but the wet texture of need, crawling all over his back as the weathered fingertips touched the softness of the Henley, torrid and muddy through the fabric. He let the digits dance over his body, trying to set his mind at ease to relish in the tenderness ensued, eyes closed as he slightly leaned into the warmth behind. He could learn to enjoy this. He could maybe also learn to… accept this.

"Chris…" Yurkov persisted. He wants—no, he needs a voice to tell him he's not dreaming.

"Shhh…" The younger male hushed, bringing a hand over his and gently caressed. It's true; there is no need for words now. He never thought he would understand this needlessness for words one day, since he used to be the one always bugging for evidences like Yurkov did—proofs such as words of affection or emotions, a kind of need that was required to atone the lack of certainty. Stepping into the shoes of his ex-lover, he slowly began to see light in a different position and at the same time perhaps, realized how wrong he had often believed the other never cared.

After a brief moment of endlessness, Chris stood from his chair as he watched the chef stood up straight, looking back at him. It was amusing; looking at Yurkov right now reminded him of his old self. So this was how the captain used to feel. That prick.

"Let's go." Listening to the soft murmur from the teacher roused a small smile to his lips. He has spent most of the time ignoring what Chris says, it is only fair now to let the younger male have his fun. The upbeat deserves a change of pace now, and he can take his time as long as he still holds this chance. Preach patience. Patience certainly paid off, this time.

Anybody wanna try decoding "24747867437" what does it stand for?