A/N: oops, sorry, I lied. This is something of an interlude to the main story line. In this installment! POV-switching, truth-revealing and truth-concealing!

Those delectable lips had smiled and scorned in equal measure. Toris had no right to take him like this, no right to claim that all the pain he'd caused had been because of some hidden desire. There was no reason Feliks should forgive his once-friend for every snide comment, every whispered assertion that "That blouse is ridiculous! Did he borrow it from his eight-year-old sister?" just because in truth Toris wanted nothing more than to rip that blouse off. The facts did not change.

Why, pray tell, was Feliks somehow not surprised by this turn of events?

Toris finally broke the connection, eyes wide and nothing short of terrified, drawing back in horror.

"Oh God…" he whispered, his forest-colored gaze not meeting Feliks's.

"To know that we know what we know, and to know that we do not know what we do not know, that is true knowledge."

-Mikołaj Kopernik, astronomer ("Copernicus" in English)

The daily torture began again. It was simple pain, and Toris knew he deserved it. He craved it.

It was the pain of knowing he was nothing but a dirty bastard, a sinner and a fake.

It was the pain of losing his closest friend and his love, all wrapped up in one, losing himself.

It was the pain of knowing it was his own damn fault.

Somehow, thoughts like a roiling serpent rose up from within him, thoughts that wrapped themselves around his unconscious if he let his guard down for a mere minute. They drove him to distance himself from their origin, to push that boy away, to take long cold showers and wear a rubber band as a deterrent around his wrist, which was soon rubbed raw.

Ice on skin! For the thoughts.

Snap, ouch! For the thoughts.

"Fag." For the thoughts.

Toris swallowed hard. Had he really said it? He must have. That word, that word full of electricity and condemnation, had come from his lips. Feliks's eyes were wide and shocked, his lower lip trembling ever so slightly. Was it possible to go back? To say, "I'm sorry, I didn't mean it," and erase that ill-thought-out moment?

No. Because he did mean it.

"You look like a fag," Toris repeated, Ivan's hand heavy and comforting on his shoulder.

He lay awake, staring at the ceiling which was always empty of answers.

"It's his fault," Toris whispered. Feliks's fault for wearing the tantalizing skirts that made his legs miles long, the long blonde hair which brushed so enticingly against his neck, the perfectly applied lip gloss which Toris was sure he could almost taste, and would, given the chance.

If only Feliks were not so jarringly playful, dancing and laughing without a thought to Toris's torment, pushing and pulling and joking like a child, sitting on his lap for Christ's sake…Toris would never have had to push him away.

"I'm only saving my soul," Toris said, tears of conflict beginning to sting his eyes. Did thoughts count the same as actions? They couldn't, could they? Even if he had sinned in his heart, he would not allow himself to translate those thoughts into actions, no matter how much his treacherous body wanted him to. His treacherous heart, which beat faster each time he came near that hazardous boy, was merely a false indicator. This was a test, Toris was sure, and he would resist that fruit no matter how innocently Feliks offered it to him

There was only one solution. To destroy the origin of sin.

Toris couldn't hold his head high, couldn't look Feliks in the eye when he knew there would be pain and betrayal in those forest-green depths. To go through with this despicable treatment of his longest friend he had to make Feliks into an object – and object of desire and hate and resent. It was wrong and selfish. No!

"It's the only thing I can do." The Lithuanian rolled onto his side, some infinitesimal particle of salty water falling from face to pillow. It seemed like the only course of action, but that answer-less ceiling just would not shut up.

"You'd be able to fix the whole thing," the ceiling said, a tiny crack like a mocking mouth Toris knew only too well, having studied it like Scripture, "if you weren't such a fucking coward."

Toris closed his eyes and pretended to sleep as he heard the slam of a door downstairs. Ivan was home, drunk and angry.

Feliks was always like this, always irrelevant and idiotic and beautiful. He was even more enticing in his anger, hurt in those fiery green eyes, fists clenched as though he would strike. Toris's mind ran ahead of him, and he could almost pretend that anger was passion, limbs trembled with desire rather than fury.

It was too much. He was too lovely, too kind. Toris would never deserve such a specimen. And that was the irony right there – ha! Everyone put themselves on a higher plane than Feliks merely for his choice of dress, when Toris knew his heart to be as pure as the Virgin Mary's. Toris hated his wayward mind, but at this moment, it almost seemed that cowardice was the greater sin.

Feliks was too good. He was too kind, too innocent to be mistreated. Most of all, he was too close. Toris could feel his own frantic heartbeat slowing, his chest pressed against Feliks's steadily rising and falling one, the Pole's arms wrapped so softly around his back. Toris hated the things his imagination did to that innocent embrace.

"I haven't done a single fucking thing except look fabulous!" Feliks protested, face flushed, his eyes alight with that emerald fire that might have been passion.

That was when Toris, that weak and moronic sinner, finally lost it.

At the moment of contact, Toris knew what he'd done was horrible and inevitable. He felt Feliks's mouth soften beneath his own, though the Pole's shoulders remained tense under his hands – whether from shock or disgust or something else entirely, it was hard to say.

It was immediate, the repulsion that set the moment Toris reclaimed enough sense to pull away. What was he now? No better than that imaginary "Feliks", the slutty drag queen who was nothing like the real boy. The imagined specter that could bear shame and the fire of self-hate with impunity. No better than Ivan. What had he done?

"Oh God," came the words, tumbling like a prayer out of his mouth. He was asking for forgiveness, asking for the knowledge that, no, of course he hadn't just done what he'd been dreaming of for the last two years. After such a long stretch of time, there was no way he could have really given in and kissed Feliks.

Toris knew he would spend yet another sleepless night asking the ceiling for answers, wishing he could wind back the clock, and waiting for the sound of a door slamming downstairs.

2010

Several US states allow same-sex marriage…but federal law does not.

"Well, daaamn." Alfred grinned up at the Brit from his roguishly casual seat on the grassy field, hair tossed hither and thither in the open wind. "Y'all done beat me again."

"Of course I did," said Arthur, foot planted triumphantly on the stationary ball. "You are absolute shit at football an-"

"I ain't! I f'ina beat yo' ass for that!"

Arthur merely glared affectionately down at his partner-in-crime. "Nobody calls it soccer except for you! And please, for the love of God, stop talking like that!"

"Make me."

There was a long, slow pause, in which the sun's leisurely descent towards the horizon seemed to halt momentarily as well. Twinkling blue eyes met green, and Alfred stood, taking a step towards his companion. The Brit flinched back, though his feet seemed rooted to the ground. His face was a mass of confusion, though perhaps an onlooker could discern the spark of hope that danced from his eye to Alfred's.

"What?"

"God, Artie, are you deaf?" Alfred leaned in close, his hand toying with the collar of Arthur's leather jacket. The only point of contact between the two was that tantalizing hand on Arthur's shoulder, and yet Alfred's posture seemed to indicate a million more just waiting, waiting to be employed. Arthur swallowed, his face as red as his socks. Their breath mingled, a mélange of Earl Grey and Marlboros and the heady, thick scent of highlands and desert. "I said…"

With one swift, punitive movement, Alfred spun his friend around, hip brushing hip, and kicked the soccer ball/football out from under Arthur's foot. The Brit became unbalanced, eyes wide with shock, and tumbled to the ground with a disgruntled "Oof." Alfred caught the soccer ball/football with one well-timed jump and turned to wink at his companion. "I said, make me."

The American left, stride broad and confident with the swagger that could only belong to such a masculine entity. He turned back only once, to wink at the boy crumpled in a resentful heap on the grassy field. "Smell ya later, loser!"

In the next chapter! Some issues are worked out, most are not, and, damn, that Ludwig guy must spend a lot of time working out.