The Sophomore Year
Chapter Two: Reunions
Arthur's boyfriend was sprawled over his full-size bed in rumpled clothing, looking completely innocent while he slept. Seeing Alfred's face made Arthur smile like a fool, and he stepped into the room more fully. The prince placed his bag down and crept closer to Alfred's bedside, just admiring the peaceful, almost angelic expression. Despite Helen's strange warnings and the changes Arthur had experienced firsthand in Alfred's tone over the past few weeks, Arthur felt relieved to see him again. He felt as if everything would soon go back to normal.
Arthur took a moment to look around the room. It amused him to see Alfred's posters on the walls of super heroes and nerdy things, and his comics stacked neatly in the bookshelf—there were even a few action figures displayed proudly in cases. Arthur's fingers trailed down Superman sheets as he rounded the bed, and he smiled even wider. The room definitely felt like the Alfred he knew. Still, it was an odd contradiction. In the bed lay a young man—almost too tall for the expansive full-size bed, yet on the walls hung the relics of his boyhood. Arthur wondered if Alfred was truly having a difficult time adjusting to the changes he'd faced in his life since returning home. So far, there hadn't been too many awkward adjustments in his own life. He felt as though he'd always known who he was and the sort of man he was trying to be. From the very beginning, however, Arthur realized it was not the same for Alfred.
Arthur moved to sit beside his boyfriend and gently brushed the hair off his forehead. No longer able to resist, he placed a gentle kiss on a high cheekbone, and then another on the curve of Alfred's ear.
"Alfred..." he whispered. The new teen heart-throb let out a little whine, like a mewling kitten. Smiling, Arthur kissed more firmly along his jaw, carding his fingers through Alfred's sun-brightened blond hair.
"A-Arthur?" he asked hesitantly before he fully woke up and his joy exploded. Arthur was wrestled onto the bed beneath Alfred in seconds, while Alfred scattered kisses over the other boy's face and neck as quickly as he could. Laughing, Arthur tried to push him away somewhat.
"Yes, it's me! Easy, Alfred!" The taller boy sat up above Arthur, knees straddling his hips, and beamed at his boyfriend with his sleepy grin.
"You're here! You're really here!"
"I am, and I'm very happy to see you, too...but why does your breath smell like you've been drinking?" Arthur asked suspiciously. Alfred looked a little sheepish.
"My mom said I was old enough to drink this summer. I had a pretty wicked pool party last night—man, I wish you could have been there!"
"Alfred, weren't you the one who followed me around at concerts just a few months ago making sure I only drank pop?" Arthur reminded.
"Well, yeah, but that was out in public, and your dad wasn't cool with you drinking. My parents don't care, and it's only at our own private parties. You'll see—it's totally fun," Alfred said. For a second, Arthur lost the trail of what his boyfriend was saying because the sight of him was simply overwhelming. That look-alike in the tabloids hadn't done him justice. Alfred was stunningly good-looking now. The acne was gone and not even scars remained as evidence it had ever been there. His braces were off and his smile was sparkling white, perfect and straight. His skin was lightly bronzed, his hair was lightened by the sunshine, and his work the previous year and the training at football camp had left him with just the right amount of musculature. He was like a living statue of Adonis.
"Arthur? Earth to Arthur?" he said playfully, leaning over and bumping his nose against Arthur's cheek.
"You...you look good, Alfred," Arthur said distractedly.
"I know, right? I think if I started a boy band right now I'd be like, bigger than Bieber!" Alfred boasted, sounding gleefully delighted about his own development.
"If you started a boy band right now, I'd dump you," Arthur replied, dead serious. Alfred laughed and collapsed on top of Arthur, cuddling up against the shorter boy's side and hugging him tightly.
"No you wouldn't," he said. Arthur rolled his eyes and smiled, looping his arm over Alfred's trim waist.
"No, I suppose I wouldn't...all the same, please don't," he said with a small grin.
"Did you miss me?" Alfred asked, baby blues imploring. Arthur gave him a little squeeze.
"Of course. I didn't think I was going to make it 'till your birthday, so I was glad when your mum called," Arthur replied. Alfred's nose scrunched up in distaste.
"Yeah, my mom's been really weird. I don't know what's up with her lately. One minute, she wants me to go to all these parties and make celebrity friends, and the next, she's calling you and saying I'm losing touch with 'Alfred'—whatever that means."
Arthur sighed, understanding Helen perfectly, but at the same time realizing such a concept would go completely over Alfred's head. Frustrating as it was, he'd learned the past year that he couldn't simply tell Alfred about a flaw in his character. Despite his bluster, his boyfriend was incredibly sensitive with a fragile sense of self-confidence. Rather, Alfred had to learn such lessons the hard way, usually by things getting messy.
"Don't worry about it, love. It's been nearly a year since you were home. It's a big adjustment for everyone, but we'll muddle through," Arthur settled on saying.
"I guess. I don't really care what her issues are—I'm just glad you're here," he said. That surprised Arthur a little. He'd never heard Alfred talk about his mother in such a dismissive, almost judgmental way before. Still, for the time being, he wanted to pretend the outside world didn't exist, and he just wanted to enjoy being with my boyfriend again after nearly six weeks apart.
Said boyfriend had clearly remembered just how much he missed Arthur, because he was sneakily working on the buttons on Arthur's shirt. His lips nibbled at the royal's skin, and he was mumbling sweet little nothings as Arthur allowed himself to be undressed. They were both aware that Helen could pop back up at any moment, but at the same time, they simply didn't care.
"Mmm...Alfred..." Arthur moaned quietly as Alfred reached Arthur's piercing, his tongue teasing it in a familiar, yet electrifying way. It must have been a new record, but Alfred was already hard and Arthur was well on my way to getting there.
Alfred's fingers deftly undid the button on Arthur's pants and the American grinned (oh gods, it was not fair how achingly sexy he was) and wiggled down the bed until Alfred was tugging insistently at Arthur's trousers.
"I missed your old-man boxers," he teased. Arthur scowled, swatting aimlessly in the general vicinity of his boyfriend's head.
"Shut up, tosser," he retorted. Alfred grinned again causing Arthur's brain to momentarily short-circuit, and then he was tugging Arthur's boxers down and going straight for Arthur's erection, licking and suckling on it like an ice-cream cone. Arthur's arms stretched above his head and curled into the slats of the headboard as he lifted his knees and spread his legs a bit. As Arthur prepared for a typical blow job from Alfred (wet and sloppy, but very enthusiastic) he was surprised when Alfred's lips latched neatly around his head, and instead of deep throating, he began to work Arthur over with his hands.
Arthur was alarmed at the same time he was shocked by the pleasurable sensation. Alfred was expertly working his hands in a gentle massaging motion down Arthur's hard prick, constantly changing his hand position so that he was always squeezing, always creating the agonizingly seductive drag of friction. All the while, he neatly and efficiently teased Arthur's sensitive tip, licking and suckling and flicking his tongue in a practiced, easy way.
Arthur's erection raged even as he began to feel uncomfortable and wanted to push Alfred off. Involuntarily though, he bucked against Alfred's mouth and gasped in pleasure as the other teen brought him to a rapid finish (it had been weeks since he'd wanked, after all). Alfred swallowed, clearly satisfied with himself, and then happily climbed up the bed to fetch whatever he used for lubrication when it was just him and his hand.
"Al...Alfred," Arthur panted, watching his boyfriend with worried green eyes as he obliviously uncapped the lube and drizzled it over his fingers.
"Yeah babe?" he asked casually. Arthur shifted uncomfortably, drawing his legs together and tugging a bit at the hem of his shirt, but Alfred would have none of that. He grinned teasingly at the other boy, misinterpreting his emotions and totally failing to read the atmosphere. "Aww, feeling shy?" he asked mockingly.
Arthur felt my cheeks redden in a mixture of annoyance and embarrassment. He was the more experienced one—he'd taught Alfred everything he knew! At least, he used to be able to say that.
Before Arthur could even think of how to even broach such a topic, Alfred was none-too-gently parting his boyfriend's legs and sliding lube-slick fingers over his entrance. Arthur had come just seconds before, so he was still relaxed and languid, despite his growing upset. The first finger felt big, but it slid in easily; even more-so when Alfred grabbed a pillow and stuffed it under the smaller boy's hips.
"Urghk!" Arthur grunted as he was manhandled. Alfred pushed his knees up to his chest and pinned them there using his shoulders. They'd used pillows before, but Alfred had never before put him so forcefully into a position. Alfred had always looked into Arthur's eyes if they weren't doing it back to front—now he buried his face against Arthur's rib cage and licked and kissed Arthur's sternum as his fingers worked deeper and deeper inside the other boy.
Arthur suspected it was all in his head, but Alfred felt completely different. His hands were bigger than he remembered, more callused and rough. His movements (once fumbling and adorably awkward) now felt smooth and demanding. In the past, even when Arthur had bottomed, he'd always guided Alfred in subtle ways—now he was completely on-edge, with no idea of what to expect from the young man who had so skillfully brought him to completion and now was claiming what he wanted with never before seen skill. All Arthur could do was hang on for the ride, and he didn't like it.
"Alfred!" he protested weakly, trying to catch his attention, but it was no use. He had three fingers in now and Alfred was scissoring him with ruthless precision. Arthur felt his cock twitch rebelliously and stir in response to his probing fingers, betraying Arthur by springing back to life so quickly.
'Curse being sixteen and a victim of my own repressed libido!' Arthur whimpered in his mind.
"Take deep breaths, babe. It'll be easier," Alfred advised, as if he were the one tutoring Arthur, the awkward virgin. The royal bristled.
"I have a name, Alfred!" he snapped, starting to really lose his temper. Alfred glanced up at Arthur (finally!) and seemed startled by the other boy's tone.
"Artie, what's wrong?" he asked, but it was too little, too late. Besides, he wasn't stopping. Instead, he took the attitude of assuming Arthur's annoyance was nervousness. In what he thought was a reassuring way, he kissed Arthur's forehead condescendingly and startled a yelp out of the other boy when he slid in, Arthur's knees still trapped between their chests.
Arthur had to admit, the position did make it more comfortable to be penetrated, but it still felt too different, too strange. Arthur's anxieties finally beat out his sex drive, and his erection faded even as he tensed under Alfred's hands.
Arthur reassured himself (since Alfred was doing such a piss-poor job of it) and remembered that Alfred didn't last very long even when they had sex regularly back at school, so after a summer without sex, surely it would be over quickly. Arthur was to be surprised once again.
"Alfred!" he protested again, when the other boy broke his rhythm and pulled out completely. He changed their position for a second time. Without so much as asking Arthur's permission, he flipped him onto his belly and pulled his arse into the air. Much to Arthur's embarrassment, he began to play with his cheeks, massaging and rubbing them, even going so far as to give him a light spank. Arthur tried turning, but Alfred's too-big hands held his hips firmly in place. Even worse, the shirt Arthur was still wearing had slipped down and now his arms and face were tangled up in the fabric.
"You impertinent little—" the rest of Arthur's muffled verbal assault was interrupted when he felt Alfred's tongue began to lap over his tingling arse, licking at the reddened skin and then dipping down to his hole. Arthur's eyes went wide in surprise as he felt a tongue probe where only fingers and cock had been before. Arthur was already stretched and, despite the strangeness of their reunion, his body wanted Alfred desperately. Arthur nearly bit through his lip to prevent himself from crying out in hoarse pleasure as the energetic tongue set to work. Arthur's muscles clenched around his boyfriend in need, and he pushed his bottom up towards him seeking more of the new sensation.
Just as he was really beginning to enjoy the spanking/suckling combination, Alfred was abruptly moving on again. Now he easily hefted Arthur backwards into his arms, so that his back was pressed against Alfred's chest, and his cock (neglected during his attention to Arthur's hole) slammed into the smaller boy hard and relentless. Arthur tossed his head back against Alfred's strong shoulder and felt fists tangle up in the material of his expensive shirt. Alfred lifted him and then let him fall, convincing Arthur each time that he was going to slide out of the awkward position and one or both of them was going to get seriously injured as a result.
Still, if he put away the unsettling feeling of being repeatedly dropped on a slippery slope of muscular thighs, Alfred was hitting Arthur's prostate in a way he'd never done before. Arthur's erection returned full-force and bobbed almost painfully as Alfred jerked the thinner boy about as he pleased. Facing away from him as Arthur was, there was nowhere for him to grab for stability. Arthur tried grounding himself with his knees against the mattress, but each time he sunk down on Alfred's cock, it was only seconds before he was being lifted up again.
Arthur couldn't decide whether he was furious with Alfred or aroused out of his mind. With an angry growl, Arthur settled on furious as Alfred released him for the final time and came hard inside. Alfred's toned arms finally gave out and Arthur slipped out of his grasp, sliding down his sweaty legs and tumbling against the mattress in an inelegant sprawl. Alfred was panting like a racehorse and grinning like a devil when Arthur weakly pulled his face out of the mattress and glared over his shoulder at the cocky boy. He was so mad that he couldn't even find the words. He just twisted more towards Alfred, balled up his fist, and tried to hit him. Laughing, thinking it was a joke, Alfred caught the attack easily and pulled the shorter boy flush against his chest. Arthur's second erection strained between them and Alfred kissed him hard, not allowing discussion yet, as he slipped the hand not gripping Arthur's wrist in between them to tug on the angry boy's cock. As Alfred's tongue filled Arthur's mouth, nearly licking his tonsils, Arthur let out a strangled, wet moan and came weakly against him for a second time.
Alfred let go of Arthur's limp manhood and tangled his fingers up with the hand which, just seconds before, would have punched him if Arthur had gotten his way. Arthur felt himself being lowered back to the soft, cotton Superman sheets and Alfred's heavy body draped over his like a blanket.
Finally, he could gasp for air when Alfred released his mouth and dropped his face down in the curve between neck and shoulder. Now, the football player was breathing even harder, but he made even the simple act of breathing sound ridiculously self-assured.
"Bastard!" Arthur hissed weakly. He felt Alfred grin against his neck.
"You liked it," he retorted. "You're just mad that I spanked you like a naughty little boy," he teased in a husky, post-sex voice that went straight to the base of Arthur's spine and made him want to part his legs for him all over again.
Instead, he worked an arm out from underneath Alfred (tugging it away from his clingy fingers) and slapped him as hard as he could on the arse—there was nothing playful or sexy about it. Still, Alfred had the nerve to pretend it didn't hurt, and instead he just laughed long and loud against Arthur's ear.
This—lying as close together as humanly possible—felt like Arthur remembered, but the sex had been like being with a total stranger. It made Arthur upset, and his emotions rose up in his throat like bile.
"I love you, babe," Alfred muttered, clearly on the verge of going right back to sleep. Arthur's impressive eyebrows furrowed downwards in annoyance.
"My name is Arthur—not babe!" he protested once more. Alfred, the git, just smiled against Arthur's shoulder and passed out again, leaving Arthur trapped underneath him, sticky and tangled in a sweaty dress shirt that was likely now ruined. So much for happy reunions.
"Ivan, don't slouch so. It is bad for your back," a busty, platinum haired girl chided fondly. Her most noticeable feature was her massive breasts, but if one looked a little further up, they'd note her kind, playful eyes and her motherly smile. The slouching boy shot her an annoyed glower and hunkered down even lower over his plate, shoveling food down his mouth with single-minded determination to ignore everyone else at the table.
"Big brother, I won't let you hurt your back. If you don't sit up straight, I'll hurt you," Natalia threatened ominously. Natalia, his youngest sister, was as hauntingly beautiful as she was violent—a mafia daughter to the core. Ivan glared at her, too, annoyed by her logic that made absolutely no sense whatsoever, and stuffed his cheeks with borsch till they puffed out comically, still hunched over stubbornly.
Casually, a slender hand brushed over his shoulder, toying with the curls at the base of his neck.
"Westerners eat like pigs at a trough. You have no manners or delicacy, you big oaf," Yao criticized in rapid Chinese. Ivan only caught the words 'pig' and 'oaf' (Yao used these frequently) and a scary, semi-cracked smile appeared on his face as he straightened to the point of ridiculousness. He flashed the child-like smile at his sisters, and then at his little companion, as if saying 'Happy now, you damned harpies?'
Yao just smiled softly at his obedience (forced by nagging as it was) and dabbed at Ivan's chin with a neglected napkin.
"Poor baby, nagged all summer by those who only want the best for you. Such a hard life you lead," Yao said in choppy, though perfectly clear Russian. Sofia smiled a teasing little smile and quickly hid it behind her hand. It was obvious to Sofia, though perhaps not to the younger Natalia, that her little brother was in love. She and Yao had gotten along splendidly from day one, and poor Ivan had been "suffering" in the face of their alliance all summer.
It had been Sofia who kept Yao company when Ivan's father took Ivan out at night and didn't return with him till early in the morning, their breath reeking of vodka and their clothes in disarray. As they struggled together to tuck the drunken, strangely vulnerable boy into bed after such outings, Sofia decided that Yao was good for her brother, even if they were both men. He did not blame Ivan for things he could not control, nor did he play the jealous housewife. He simply accepted the fact that Ivan had obligations to his father to fulfill and that, unpleasant as they might have been, they were inescapable.
He was there for Ivan the next morning, too, when the older boy silently raged and could barely hold his murderous temper in check. Yao thought of one such morning, the worst of them all, when he'd almost abandoned the other boy to his anger, fearing for his own safety.
"LEAVE!" Ivan had roared, slamming his fist into the wall near Yao's head nearly two weeks before. Yao had merely stared at his lover impassively, unmoved by his rage. Inside, though, he was trembling in fear. His heart ached for Ivan and what he was going through at his father's hand. Sometimes Ivan came home roughed up, as if he'd been fighting like a prized dog, and other nights he came home with tacky lipstick all over his shirt collar and the perfume of poor, Russian hookers clinging noxiously to his skin. His father had once said it was a late birthday present, since Ivan had turned seventeen in China the previous Christmas. He said this with a cruel, cold stare in Yao's direction, as if driving the point home that Ivan could escape to China and Europe, but his expectations at home would never go away.
Ivan's father knew about them, too, and it enraged him in a chilling way that made Yao afraid to sleep in the man's home at night for the whole first week. When he'd expressed this fear to Ivan, the other boy had showed up in his bedroom the very next night, collected him with innocent, smiling determination, and brought him to his own room. He hadn't made love to him that night, as if he was expecting someone to burst in the door any moment. Instead, he held him protectively in the circle of his muscular arm, singing to him lowly in achingly beautiful Russian—songs his mother had once sung to him when he'd been a very small boy. Yao knew this, because when Sofia caught him humming the tune the next day, she teared up and proceeded to clutch him like a teddy bear to her impressive chest whilst explaining that she thought Ivan had no memories of such things.
The next morning after their sleepover, everyone had been silent and tense at breakfast. Yao heard Ivan fighting with his father in the study later, but Ivan never spoke of what was said, and all Yao could do was tenderly press a homemade Chinese remedy against the blackened skin around Ivan's eye. That night, Ivan had gone out with his father and come back with humiliation in his lavender blue eyes. Yao had broken down, begged him to just leave with him—fly back to China, or leave for America early—but Ivan was determined to endure his stay, and Yao's weakness made him even angrier the next day.
"You are not happy here, you promudobliadskaja pizdoprojebina, so LEAVE!" Ivan had roared. Yao had no mind for translating the Russian, and he honestly didn't want to. He knew it was insulting, and that was enough. Instead, he reached forward with trembling hands and clutched at the front of Ivan's disheveled, wrinkled shirt.
"If you stay, I stay. Where you go, I go," Yao said with a spark of his usual fieriness. Ivan had choked up at his words, uncurling his fist and sinking his fingers into Yao's hair. He'd slanted his mouth hungrily over Yao's and clung to the other boy desperately. As Ivan sunk to his knees, Yao went with him, cradling the other boy in his arms and comforting him softly in Chinese as he cried.
That night, Ivan had laid on his back and Yao had ridden him slowly, staring deeply into the other boy's eyes the entire time. Their lovemaking was neither wild nor aggressive, just simple and sincere. Yao had abated Ivan's rage by giving him what the hookers could not—sex as an expression of love and tenderness.
Now, their visit was nearly at an end. It had been a test of their love for each other most assuredly, though it was less terrifying than their visit to China. Yao had fond memories of Ivan's sisters and of the beautiful sights of Russia he'd seen with Ivan acting as a proud, beaming tour guide.
"It will be sad when you go," Sofia said abruptly, sniffling over her dinner. She was an emotional girl, though very maternal, and strangely opposite of her aggressive, harsh little sister.
"Don't be such a crybaby, Sofia," Ivan replied, though his tone was fond. Yao took his own seat at the dinner table next to Ivan and discreetly held his hand underneath the table.
"I feel better now though, knowing you have Yao to take care of you while you are at school," Sofia said, her tears clearing away almost instantly like a passing summer rain, to be replaced by a mischievous little grin.
"Sofia..." Ivan warned, his brows forking downwards in displeasure. The longer their stay, the more bold Sofia had become in her teasing. Yao loved the way the gentle heckling from his eldest sister (and Natalia's confused demands to know what was going on) made Ivan blush like a little boy. He could talk about whores and murder without flinching, but at the slightest hint that he was sweet on Yao, his pale cheeks would flush with color.
Thinking such thoughts made Yao smile contentedly as he began to (neatly) eat his own serving of dinner. The door opened again and Ivan's hand jerked back to his own lap. Ivan's father entered in his commanding way—rather unassuming and perhaps even a little smaller than his son. What he lacked in muscle definition, however, he made up for with the ability to inspire sheer terror in just a single look.
Ivan's father was a heartless, soulless man, at least as far as Yao could tell.
"Sofia, prepare my plate, if you would be so kind, my dear," Nikolai Braginski requested in heavily accented English. He spoke it for Yao's benefit. Even when Yao had said that he spoke fairly decent Russian, Nikolai continued to speak in English, as if determined to treat Yao as an outsider. It almost seemed to annoy him that he could not speak in Russian to his children when he didn't wish for Yao to understand his words.
Without being asked, Ivan poured a glass of kvass for his father and respectfully placed it in front of him. Nikolai's hard, cruel eyes twinkled as he unfolded his napkin in his lap. The good mood from earlier had evaporated at his arrival. This draining of cheer seemed to please him—that was the sort of man he was. Still, in Yao's presence, he was at all times perfectly polite. He never once raised his voice, or made a single threat.
All the same, Yao was terrified of him. Though he'd been a spoiled and adored first son, and he'd had free reign of his household since practically his birth, Yao turned into a deferential, soft-spoken little boy in the older man's presence. He could not help it, and thankfully, Ivan did not judge him for his weakness in his father's presence. How Ivan stood so tall and brave in front of his patriarch awed Yao. He couldn't comprehend how it was even possible to have such strength and mental fortitude.
"You will leave tomorrow, yes? To the party in the American capital?" Nikolai confirmed. Both his daughters sat with bowed heads, utterly silent. Only Ivan met his father's eyes and spoke to him like a man should. Yao behaved as the girls did, his eyes glued to his dinner plate and hiding as best he could behind the curtain of his hair.
Despite jerking his hand away instinctively upon his father's arrival, Ivan sensed his need for reassurance and his hand drifted back into Yao's lap. He placed it over Yao's slender thigh, giving a gentle squeeze. Yao flinched a little in surprise, and it made Nikolai's attention shift to him.
"Tell me, Yao, are all Chinese men like you?" he asked, for the first time his tone sounding less than polite. He almost sounded insulted by Yao's very presence. The large hand on his thigh tensed. Sofia swallowed heavily and leaned forward, fumbling for a dish.
"Father, please have some of the—"
"Quiet, Sofia. I am not speaking to you," Nikolai said mildly. Sofia sat, silent as a statue, her eyes turned downwards once more. Yao admired her, too, but he wished she hadn't tried to intervene on his account—not if it would get her in trouble. Yao didn't think Nikolai would hurt him, but he couldn't say the same for Sofia.
"I am just myself. I cannot speak for other Chinese men," Yao replied, trying to speak clearly. Still, his hands were trembling. Thankfully, Nikolai had only addressed him a handful of times during his visit, but each time left Yao a nervous wreck. Just imagining what the criminal was capable of terrified him. He was not like Ivan's hulking, though likeable uncle Zakhar—he was another breed entirely. He whispered instead of roared, and he caressed before he squeezed the life out of someone.
"Well, I think it is time we speak honestly, though it is not talk for the delicate ears of my daughters. You girls are through eating, yes?" Nikolai confirmed. The girls stood up instantly, abandoning their full plates.
Ivan glared at his father for this dismissal, worrying over his sisters missing a meal. Yao loved him for that.
"So," Nikolai said when his daughters were gone, "You have made my son a homosexual."
Yao didn't know what to say to that. What did one possibly say to that? He stayed quiet.
"I have tried to make him a man, but he has failed. Haven't you, Ivan? Are my women not beautiful enough? They are clean—the most expensive in all of Russia—yet my son is as innocent in their hands as a little boy."
The hand on his thigh clenched, and Yao hissed in pain. Glancing at him in surprise, Ivan instantly removed his hand, his lavender gaze apologetic.
"Ivan is too much like my stupid brother. He thinks having brute strength is what it means to be a man. He does not realize strength means nothing if you cannot make a family—if you cannot have a son."
Yao understood that. He was Chinese, after all.
"My family has...expectations of me as well. I wish for children some day, too," Yao said weakly. He'd never before wished he was a girl, but at that moment, he was full of bitter envy for what his body could not provide him.
"I have decided to forgive my son for his sickness. In all other respects, he is my pride and joy. You have infected him, and that cannot be helped, but I will use it to this family's benefit."
Yao looked to Ivan in confusion. The other boy was stone-faced, utterly unreadable even to his lover.
"I...I do not understand," Yao said.
"This summer, Ivan has fathered a child—a son," Nikolai said with mock pride. Ivan glanced at his father with his brows furrowed ever so slightly, and that was when Yao realized Ivan was just as clueless as he was.
"You see, my enemies think it is a laughing matter that my son will never have a son of his own. They think his sickness makes them strong enough to mock me...to mock my family. I have shown them what I think of their mockery."
"Father...what have you done?" Ivan asked, his voice flat and cold.
"I have killed them. I have started a war...and I have kidnapped my enemy's grandson. Not his anymore, though. Now he is mine. There is more than one way to have a child, you see? You will take the child and your sisters to America, Ivan, where your sisters will be safe from revenge and my grandson will never be retrieved."
Yao felt his blood turn to ice. It couldn't be possible. It simply couldn't be! Ivan was only seventeen, and sure, plenty of men back in China and in Russia were fathers at that age, but not them. They were young and wealthy! They still had their years in school to enjoy, and careers to pursue beyond that. Yao had not tried to imagine where they would live, or if they would even still be together, but now his boyfriend's father was making those decisions for them, punishing them because they were gay. He was insane—a complete and total lunatic.
Yao's dark eyes filled with fire.
"No," he said. Ivan swallowed thickly next to him, clearly overwhelmed and confused.
"Oh, so you can speak like a man?" Nikolai said genially, as if surprised by a turn in the weather. Yao stood, fear be damned, and glared at Nikolai.
"You have overstepped your bounds. You drag Ivan to disgusting whore houses, and out of respect for your house and what you have done for my family, I say nothing. You bring him home drunk and beaten, and still I say nothing. You strike him, with your own hand, and I still say nothing. But no more. You go too far. Ivan has not fathered a child, and you will not make him responsible for one!" Yao stood determinedly straight, even as Nikolai casually tossed his napkin to the table and stood.
Ivan cursed under his breath and stood as well, placing himself solidly in front of Yao.
"I will not let you hurt him," Ivan said, even though his voice broke and his broad shoulders were shaking. Yao pushed around him, trying to wriggle out of Ivan's grasp.
"He won't hurt me. I'm not afraid of him! You're a monster, and I won't ever forgive you for how you've hurt Ivan!" In his fury, Yao's hair had escaped his tie and it swayed around his delicate features. Ivan held him back protectively, though Yao was making a valiant attempt at breaking free to do god-only-knows-what to the head of the Braginski family. Ivan half-feared he would produce a frying pan out of nowhere and go to town on a leader of the Russian mafia.
He would have laughed if he wasn't about to piss his pants.
Apparently, his father suddenly found Yao amusing as well. For the first time since their arrival, his eyes turned warm and he laughed—truly laughed—at the spectacle Yao was making.
"I see...now I see. I will not pretend that I am happy you have made my son into a queer, but if he must keep a little bitch around, I suppose you are not so bad. If you truly care for my son, then you will care for my grandson. Keep them both well until it is safe for my family in Russia, da?" Nikolai said with a dismissive grin. "I think I am through with dinner for the night. The sight of my son with his arms around another man has made me lose my appetite. Ivan, you will find your son in your rooms. He has all he will need for the trip to America, and I have already arranged things for your sisters."
And just like that, Nikolai left, and Ivan sunk heavily into a chair the moment he was gone.
For a long time, Yao was silent. Finally, he approached Ivan's chair and climbed into the other boy's lap.
"You are not really a father, Ivan. You do not have to take responsibility for this child," Yao said. "When we get to America, we can contact the government. We can—"
"No," Ivan said, his usual strength slowly returning.
"But Ivan..."
"This is my father's punishment—to saddle me with a bastard child of my enemy—and I will bear his punishment. The child is Braginski blood now, and I will raise him."
"This...this is crazy, Ivan! You are seventeen! You...we...can't raise a child!"
"I do not expect you to share my punishment. We are done, Yao. I cannot escape this world, but you can. You are not meant for this life, and I will not bring you back to it. I am not yet strong enough to protect you from him. I was a fool to think I could."
"But you did protect me! Your eye proves that," Yao insisted stubbornly.
"No. This is a threat, you naïve idiot. If you come back, he will treat you as he treats Sofia and Natalia. He will place demands of the family on you that I do not—will not—let you accept. Don't you understand? I can't protect you here. You are not safe here. My father has tried to scare you, and he knows—at least he hopes—you will not be foolish enough to return."
For a long moment, Yao simply stared at the boy who had changed his life, who had been willing to die for him. Ivan was his protector and his ally—his constant friend.
"If you stay, I stay. Where you go, I go," Yao renewed his promise. Ivan shook his head in weak, halfhearted denial, but Yao was resolute. He pressed a kiss that was not returned against Ivan's lips and slid off the other boy's lap.
"Come, Ivan. Let's go to our rooms. Your...our...son is waiting."
For a long moment, Ivan hesitated. "I mean it," he said softly. "We are done, Yao. This child is no son of yours."
Glaring at Ivan just as fiercely as he'd glared at his father, Yao raised his chin imperially.
"I do not accept it, and lay hoe chun ah!"
"Too fucking bad, and I am not an idiot," Ivan snapped, shoving past him harshly.
"You're my idiot. You're my fat, sloppy, creepy idiot, and there's nothing you can do about it! You love me!" Yao insisted stubbornly as they shoved each other down the hallway. Ivan's "shoving" was incredibly light and more of an irritated mock attack than an actual shove.
"I'm not fat, you nytʹe zhenshchina!"
"That's a fine way to talk to the father of your child," Yao retorted, shoving Ivan as hard as he possibly could (this barely made him alter his step).
"You're not a father!" Ivan yelled.
"Neither are you!" Yao shouted back.
Shoving and snipping at each other, they pushed their way into Ivan's room to see the addition of a simple crib. Both teens fell silent at the sight of the little toddler napping innocently in his pen. He had sandy blond hair, soft and silky, just a few shades darker than Ivan's. Ivan was rooted to the spot, motionless with a strange look in his eyes, but Yao recovered first and moved forward to inspect the child more closely.
"This is kidnapping. Ivan, we can't be a part of this," Yao said quietly, their earlier spat forgotten. Ivan swallowed thickly and joined him, staring down at the babe but making no move to touch him.
"This is the Galante child. My father has been foolish—very foolish."
"You know him?" Yao asked. Ivan nodded.
"Sofia wrote to tell me of his birth. Our families...are not exactly on good terms. You see, if things had played out differently, I would have been expected to kill him."
"Ivan!" Yao hissed in displeasure. Ivan just shrugged.
"I did not say I would—just that I would be expected to. He is a blood enemy...though not anymore, I suppose."
"He's a toddler. Toddlers don't have enemies, Ivan," Yao snapped. Ivan's fists tightened around the crib.
"Mafia children in Russia do. But it no longer matters. My father has provoked a powerful enemy, perhaps the only one strong enough to challenge his position. He is right to declare it war. You, Sofia and Natalia must leave immediately."
"And you, too, right?" Yao insisted. Ivan sighed.
"I wish I could stay with my father, but someone must keep his daughters and...grandson...safe."
"Why? Why have any loyalty to him, Ivan?" Yao asked, clearly trying to understand. Ivan lifted his chin a bit, clearly proud of his father despite everything that had been said.
"He could have killed me for shaming him in such a way. He is a good father. He has acted rashly, but it was my actions that provoked him. Now he is trying to protect my life. He is a hard man, but he has provided well for my sisters and me. His life has not been easy, and his enemies hunt him like hungry wolves."
There was a quiet knock on the door. Yao and Ivan shared a wary glance before Ivan went to open it. On the other side, Sofia was sniffling into a handkerchief, already dressed in her night gown. She threw herself against her startled younger brother.
"What has papa done? They will kill him! He's gone too far!"
Ivan held his sister easily and petted her hair with practiced ease.
"Hush, Sofia. Papa has done what he must. It is not your place to question him. He needs you to care for the child, just like you cared for Natalia and me after the Galante killed mama."
Feeling overwhelmed with all he had learned and witnessed, Yao sunk onto the edge of the bed. In the course of just one dinner, everything had changed.
A/N: Oh, did I forget to mention this story would have toddler!Latvia? Hmm...must have slipped my mind. :P But yeah, the kid's not an OC, he's age-altered Latvia. His family has a feud with Ivan's family. A long time ago, they killed Ivan's mother. Now, Ivan's father has killed Raivis' parents and kidnapped young Raivis. He's roughly two years old. In case I didn't make it clear, Sofia is Ukraine, and Natalia is Belarus.