Ivan pours himself another glass of vodka.
His doctor has only allowed him two glasses per day, but he needs more alcohol, now, and fast. He is inside his own apartment, anyway, so even if he gets stinking drunk, the chances of him being responsible for any kind of public destruction (which would not only blow his cover but also ruin his reputation) are small. And he is allowing himself to bring his guard down for once. His apartment has the best security system and staff. He will allow himself a single night of weakness.
He knows he is the one responsible for Yao's fate. The images Arthur had sent to him via cell, showing Yao in such a horrific condition, had made him want to pump bullets into everyone around him, including himself. Maybe he could even orchestrate another massacre of the police force or of the federal agency. But hell, he wants Yao back. He wants the small Asian man who always smiled beside him, loving him fully, treating him like the human he was, way back when. It hurts.
"Your eyes are purple, aru! Are those contacts?"
"No, it's my natural color."
"Oh. You have very beautiful eyes, mister!"
Usually people would call him a demon on sight. Nobody had ever before called his eyes "pretty," except those sluts they had once sent to seduce him and who had pinpointed his identity as a spy. Maybe this Chinese beauty was a spy too?
What a pity.
The fragmented memories of being with Yao make him want to cry, make him feel scared at the same time. Forcing himself to try to not remember makes him feel worse. He crushes the vodka glass inside his hands, feeling no pain, and staring as his palm bleeds. He stares and stares at his dripping hand. It is scratched everywhere, but the blood gushing out is red. He is still human… isn't he?
But how come they'd sent him a male prostitute instead? Ivan chuckled to himself. Maybe it was because he'd never gone for the beautiful mistresses they had tried to trap him with, so they must have eventually concluded he had to be gay. What a stupid joke.
And then he watched as the Chinese man suddenly rose to leave, bowing and opening the door to exit the hotel room.
"Wait!" Ivan found his voice, and was surprised he was able to speak. "You… You haven't done anything…"
The Chinese man appeared confused. "I have finished arranging the sunflowers in the vase, sir. Just what the hotel had ordered me to."
"…Aren't you here for me?"
"For…?" For a moment Yao looked confused, but then he blushed deeply. "Shame on you! I am not an escort! I run my own respectable flower arranging company. How dare you think of me as some kind of slut! Which part of me screams "slut" to you?"
Without another word, Yao turned on his heel and marched. He was halfway out the main door of the hotel when he felt a very large hand close down on his wrist. "It's impolite to get up and leave in the middle of a conversation, you know."
"What do you want?" Yao struggled in the iron grip.
"To give you a ride home."
"I don't even know you!"
"Little sunflower arranger," Ivan said, tightening his grip so that Yao was forced to stop struggling or have deep bruises left on his wrist, "are you sure about this?"
"About what?" Yao glanced around and forced himself to remain calm; someone was bound to stop by the lobby to investigate any minute.
"About us not being friends. I need a friend, you know. Even a scared-to-death, cute little lady like you."
Yao's mind whirled. "We can talk about this tomorrow, maybe? My brother is waiting for me to get back."
"I'll have my assistant Toris stop by your place and tell him you have a change of plans. Do you like polka?"
"…Please let me go, Mr. Braginsky."
"I prefer Ivan. You don't have to call me 'Mr. Braginsky.'" Ivan did what he'd wanted to do for the past half hour or so and reached out to touch that soft porcelain cheek. Yao stayed perfectly still. The large hand was warm and dry, and the touch was unexpectedly comforting.
"I'm sorry," Yao said, surprised at the reluctance in his own voice. "I'd just like to be left alone for now."
Ivan's eyes widened. "No, you don't."
"I know what I want."
"No, you don't."
"Well, if I don't, you certainly don't."
"Yes, I do." Ivan pulled him close, and this time Yao let him enfold him in his arms.
Ivan remembers how his hand had trembled as he led Yao from the hall, as he took him to the limousine waiting outside. Ivan had seen wealth, had seen the opulence of his ancestor General Winter's palace in St. Petersburg, had seen the thousand most beautiful things that people made and bought and sold on all his missions and travels. None of them was worth the beauty that walked beside him, that held his hand, that gave a coy, reluctant smile at him as the doors to the Forbidden City hotel were closed behind them.
He knows that Yao must be broken by now. How many days have passed ever since he'd received the picture? How long could Yao endure? How long until… until Arthur sends him a photo of Yao's dead face?
-Which part of me screams 'slut,' you idiot?
-You've liked me today, haven't you?
-Yes, yes, I will marry you.
He shuts his eyes as a tear rolls down his face.
-I love you, Ivan.
