The room was too cold.
Pale as a sculpture, Yao sipped the scalding tea as fast as he could, in between bites of cake. He tasted neither. A raisin fell from the fragment he held in his slim fingers, and disappeared between the dark patterns of the living room carpet. As he fretfully chewed the moist fragments in his mouth, he accidently bit his own lip. Although he tried to stifle it, a whimper escaped.
Alfred had been unable to look Yao in the eye as he reached over the bed sheets and started to fumble with and pull on his own breeches. He had a stupidly determined, almost dumbfounded look on his face, as though trying to either shrug off or block from his mind what had just transpired. Yao did not want to watch the American's movements, but the lights pulsing in front of his eyes prevented him from closing his lids; and his limbs and head moved very sluggishly, as though in a nightmare. His pupils rotated in their sockets as Alfred finally managed to button himself up.
"It's all right, little one."
The voice was barely above a clumsy whisper as Yao started, shook a bit between the sheets and turned his backside towards the American. "I'll…"
The Chinese boy remained mute and motionless as he heard a faint shuffling noise, felt a light breeze as the American stood up to hover over him. He heard Alfred clear his throat and didn't move as the American stroked his fingers in Yao's long, bright, silky hair. The fingers brushing his scalp hardly felt real. "You and I both know you willed for this to happen. But I was gentle, wasn't I? And generous. Let me know if you need anything." The brusque and low tone sounded regretful. The words jarred against Yao's very recent memory of Alfred's large, rough, trembling fingers wrapping around his naked hips.
Regretful? Subconsciously, Yao's eyebrows furrowed in bewilderment. Hadn't Alfred accomplished his goal? Hadn't he broken Yao's rather overconfident sense of strength and privilege, at least for the time being?
A portentous moment, and relief crept over him as he sensed Alfred thinking better of it and turning around to leave the room—rather than stay to explain himself further, or offer some sort of apology. If Alfred had indeed uttered another word, he might have thrown something at the larger man.
Time passed so strangely. Had this all occurred only a few hours ago? Yao groaned and set down the tea cup, intent on abandoning his dinner. He shivered, rubbing his sleeves, looking around the giant, dreary room. Arthur was away visiting one of his factories; Alfred was probably accompanying him. Yao wondered if his conscience was weighing on him at all. If so, he doubted that Arthur would even notice his cousin's discomfort, as the British man's focus seemed myopic.
His heart ached. If only he had his own family still with him.
Closing his slanting, amber-colored eyes, Yao began singing softly an old, wordless Oriental tune that praised the timeless beauty of the jasmine flower. As the low tones slid through his throat, sinking along the hypnotic adagio rhythm, his mind's-eye conjured images and emotions involuntarily. He sang of his dark longing to see Kiku again, the loneliness of his captivity; and the burgeoning despair of being trapped in this new empty, materialistic life.
When he paused on a dissonant note, he was startled to hear a Cossack-accented voice. "Can you go on, but this time a bit louder?" It belonged to one of the gardeners, Ivan. The one with the silver hair and long scarf. He had been seated across from the boy, at the servants' dinner table, for who knows how long.
The boy blushed and stared mutely at Ivan's scarred, haggard hands cupping the mug of vodka; the fingernails were broken and some were blackened. "Come here," the man said gently. "I don't bite."
Yao hesitated, then took his time making his way across the floor. Ivan's bluish-violet eyes did not stray from the boy's form for a second. He has an interesting face, Yao decided as he folded his legs and sat on the cushion, lotus-like. Cold, serious, confident…
"Wine?" came an offer and a frosty raised eyebrow, momentarily cracking that almost beautifully angular visage.
But, there is something… broken.
"Yes. Please." Yao glanced about. "Did you live in Siberia before coming here?" he asked politely, wondering if sheer cold had done such damage to the man's hands.
"Uzbekistan," the man replied cheerily mid-whistle as he looked about the room. "I'm surprised. I thought you were like an infant."
Yao blushed. "I'm just a kid from a poor region of the Guandong province. I used to live with my two older brothers."
"What brings you here, pixie?"
"—But one of them ran away last year, and… well, we haven't seen him since." As he spoke, Yao's head lowered towards the floor.
Ivan was silent, watching the child closely.
"Do you have any family?" Yao ventured.
"Your brother ran away?" the older man inquired, as though Yao hadn't just tried to change the subject.
"I miss him," Yao blurted, suddenly bursting at the seams for this long-suffering opportunity to pour out his heart to another human being. "So much."
"What was happening at home?"
"I wish he were here so I could ask him." A shadow fell across the boy's face. He remembered briefly how Kiku had forbidden Yong-Soo's name to be uttered in his presence, and particularly never in the house, ever since his disappearance. "I was very young, but I remember that for a while he became more and more distant and distracted, and he and my other older brother constantly argued, even though they've butted heads ever since I can recall… when he left, we searched and searched, and after a while we just prayed he'd come home."
Thoughtfully, the Russian sloshed wine around in his mouth before responding. "Perhaps he had no desire to be found."
"Of course that crossed my mind. But I want to know why. He lied to me. He said he loved me. If he really loved me then why did he leave me?" Yao realized how loud his voice had gotten. "Forgive me," he added hastily, dropping his gaze and softening his tone to what he hoped was politely just above whisper-level.
"Nothing to forgive." The man shifted his weight. "Perhaps he had something to hide? Or wanted to protect you?"
"I wish I knew," Yao said miserably. A rapid-fire avalanche of pent up memories was threatening to break his mind. "I thought he'd try to contact me at least once. But no letters ever came." He blinked as his voice became thicker. "I waited every single day. But not one came. Not one!"
"My brother is gone… He's gone." Yao found he could not continue.
There was a hand on his shoulder. He almost leaped out of his seat, but calmed immediately when he saw that Ivan had simply shifted his position and was trying, rather clumsily, to comfort him; lifting his purple gaze into the boy's.
Ivan cast his eyes downwards as he spoke. "Stop punishing yourself, boy. It is needless. What have you done wrong? Absolutely nothing." With that, he pulled Yao into his lap as though Yao weighed no more than a wisp of down.
Yao didn't bother trying to stem the hot tears cascading down his thin face. And now he knew the name of the bitterness lying at the pit of his song from earlier.
The Russian lifted Yao's head with one hand, stroking his thumb along the boy's jaw. It was such an unexpectedly tender gesture that Yao's eyes completely overflooded. A minor jolt of electricity seemed to spark between the two men.
"I was worried for you the minute you were carried into this house, boy. I could see your pain. Smell it even." The boy didn't shift—he hardly seemed to notice—as the Russian leaned his face closer, as though to actually inhale the scent of the tawny cream of the skin of Yao's collarbone, the older man's furtive movements hinting at a deeply contained agitation. As Yao remained practically motionless, Ivan's eyes gleamed. The violet gaze was transfixed, seemingly mesmerized by Yao's tears. Carefully, he undid the ribbon holding up Yao's hair so that the long locks, their hue of the deepest black, hung over the boy's chest, like a downpour of raven feathers. The older man carefully fisted a handful, as though to ready to yank at any given moment…
"What are you doing?" Yao asked sharply, breaking out of his reverie. Ivan halted his movements, although one gloved hand remained clutching Yao's hair.
"Do not mistrust me." He stroked Yao's neck carefully with his other hand. And before the atmosphere between them could become more strained, Ivan continued. "Listen. I've been the eyes and ears of this household for years. Arthur not only wants you as his concubine, but also wishes to keep you a child forever. Children are much easier to control than young men. But you are an old soul trapped in a boy's body. Your innocence has been destroyed by truth and awareness."
"I'm not as damaged as you think." He addressed Arthur by his first name, not "the Master," Yao thought…
"Take advantage of your situation. From now on you are no longer an abandoned peasant boy, but the special pet of London pseudo-aristocracy. Your past does not exist here." Despite the reassuring words, a part of Yao wanted to shrink away from Ivan's gaze; the look the Russian was giving him was a mixture of half-exposed amazement and what strongly appeared to be greed.
But it was too late. Yao was drawn to this man. It was not in the sexual sense, at least not yet; it was deeper.
"Why are you staring at me like that?" he asked, attempting to set up a buffer.
"You are just… so very pretty."
There was the sound of a door slamming, and both the Chinese and Russian jumped. "That must be the master," Yao mumbled. "He's returned."
Ivan didn't move.
"I'd better go," Yao whispered.
With barely a rustle, Yao dropped from Ivan's lap onto the floor. "Boy," Ivan said.
Yao turned.
"You have brought a new and rather delicious presence to my domain. I only wish to provide for you." He smiled. "If you sing for me again, that is."
Yao hesitated, a grin playing over his lips, then opened the door to the hallway without looking back. For several seconds he crept along the corridor with the ease and precision of a Siamese cat on a precarious window ledge. His senses did not alert him to anything being amiss. Therefore, when someone grabbed hold of him, pinning his arms to his sides from behind, he was taken completely by surprise.
"And who were you chatting so amiably with right now, little Yao? Was it that Cossack gardener?"
Alfred Jones. Yao's heart was in his throat as threads of primal fear snaked into his gut. How much had the American overheard of their conversation? He sought to control his rising panic, but it controlled him. He didn't struggle. "Yes," he gasped.
The arms gripping him relaxed, but only so slightly. "Hmm," Alfred murmured against Yao's hair. As Yao broke into a cold sweat, one large hand dived between the boy's legs, squeezing him gently. When Yao emitted a yelp, Alfred used his other hand to cover his mouth.
"And what would your dear brother Kiku think of you now, keeping the company you do?"
The mention of Kiku's name elicited a pang of longing. Yao was reminded again of just how deeply he was missing him; a twinge of anger began to grow in his chest. What would he think of what you are doing to me now? he thought inwardly as Alfred continued to fondle him, playing his fingers over the cloth between his legs.
The American withdrew the hand covering his mouth. "What was that?"
"Let me go." Yao had twisted around so that he was half-facing the other man. His delicate, fey stature contrasted wildly with the poisonous stare he was transfixing Alfred with. More than a handful of men had been swept beneath it.
He could hear Alfred smirking, though unbeknownst to him a grudging admiration was visible in those blue eyes. "This is a warning," the American said. "Stay away from that man. I do not know why my cousin has kept him around for so long, but he has left a path of destruction everywhere else he's been. Stay away from him at all costs, you hear?"
"If you don't let me go right now, I'll disappear from this house. It wouldn't be difficult. I swear I'll do it!"
Alfred released him. Yao stood there, rubbing his arms. A blush crept into his cheeks as he rearranged his clothes, avoiding the other man's gaze.
"Easy it would be for you to vanish, but even easier it would be to detect you again. You're too striking. You would not last a day out in the streets of London."
Yao decided to keep his mouth shut.
"My cousin might have taken a liking to you, but he is my family and trusts me completely. As long as you are in this house, remember that unless you're begging to let me have my way with you again, you'll do what I say."
Alfred's smirk had vanished. "Arthur is expecting you in his bedroom in the next twenty-five minutes." Yao opened his mouth to speak, but Alfred was already gone, leaving the corridor as empty and dark as before. The boy shivered. What had happened? It was as though the American had never actually been there at all.