23Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡgHpHt1LReGArtyom reached the hotel in just under an hour.
A small guesthouse on the edge of the village, one room left. He paid in cash, climbed the stairs, sat on the bed. Still in his jacket. Still in his boots.
Darkness outside the window. Chaos in his head.
Vlad's lips. Warm, insistent. His hands under the jacket. The sound Artyom had made when their hips pressed together.
"I kissed him back. I fucking kissed him back."
His phone buzzed every ten minutes. Mom. He didn't pick up, but he typed a message:
"Mom, I'm sorry. Something came up in Moscow, a friend needs help. Please apologize to Viktor for me. Happy New Year. Love you."
The lie came out easily. Too easily.
She called again. He declined. She texted: 'Tyomochka, what happened? You scared us. Please call.'
He wrote back: 'Everything's fine. Just urgent. I'll explain later.'
He wouldn't explain. Not ever.
Vlad texted too. Once. A short one: 'Sokolov, we need to talk.'
Artyom blocked his number.
He sat in the room until dawn. Couldn't sleep, couldn't try. Every time he closed his eyes, Vlad's face was there. He could still feel his mouth on his.
In the morning he ordered a taxi to the bus station. The coach to Moscow left at nine. Eight hours of road ahead, and he didn't close his eyes for a single one of them. He sat by the window and watched the world scroll past snow-covered fields, grey villages, the occasional truck on the motorway.
By evening he was in the city.
Moscow met him with its usual noise, its lights, its crowds. Artyom stood outside the bus station with his bag over one shoulder and no idea where to go.
Home was out. Vlad would be there.
Pasha was still in Sochi, back the day after tomorrow.
Artyom walked to the nearest bench and sat down. Watched the traffic. An hour went by, then two. It got properly dark. The streetlamps threw yellow light across the square.
He took out his phone and scrolled through his contacts. Stopped on Voronov's name. Hit call.
"Voronov, can I crash at yours tonight?"
"Sokolov?" The voice was drowsy, rough. "What's going on? Didn't you go away with your family?"
"Long story. Can I come or not?"
A pause. A yawn.
"Come over. Fair warning, the place is wrecked from last night."
Wrecked was putting it mildly. The flat smelled of beer and leftover salad. Empty bottles on the floor, a heap of dishes in the sink. Voronov himself looked like he'd been hit by something large and fast.
"Make yourself at home." He waved vaguely toward the sofa. "I'm going back to sleep."
And disappeared into his bedroom.
Artyom sat on the sofa among crumpled cushions and someone's forgotten t-shirt. He looked at his phone.
Another message from his mother: 'Vlad says you two had a fight. What happened?'
"Vlad says."
Artyom imagined him lying smoothly to Irina and Viktor. Playing the innocent, a shrug, something like 'I don't know, he just snapped and left.'
Bastard.
He wrote back to his mother: 'Small misunderstanding. Nothing serious. I'll be home soon.'
Another lie. He was building a wall out of them, brick by brick, and could barely remember anymore what the truth looked like.
He lay down on the sofa and shut his eyes.
Sleep wouldn't come.
* * *
Two days later, Pasha came back from Sochi.
"Are you out of your mind?" he said, opening the door. "Happy New Year, by the way."
"Happy New Year. Can I stay a few days?"
Pasha looked at him for a long moment. Took in the shadows under his eyes, the rumpled clothes, the bag on his shoulder.
"Get inside."
Unlike Voronov, he didn't ask questions. He set Artyom up on the sofa, tossed over a pillow and blanket.
"You eating?"
"No."
"Suit yourself."
Pasha went to the kitchen. Crockery rattled, the kettle hummed.
Artyom sat on the sofa and looked out the window. A grey January sky, bare trees, snow on the ledge outside.
In his head, the same thing kept playing on a loop.
The kiss. Vlad's hands. His voice: 'You wanted this.'
"No. No, I didn't want it."
But his body remembered something different. Remembered grabbing Vlad's jacket. Pulling him closer. The sound he'd made against his mouth.
Artyom buried his face in his palms.
"What is wrong with me?"
His phone buzzed. A message from Boris Petrovich in the team chat: 'Practice tomorrow at 10:00. Everyone be there.'
Artyom opened a private message to the coach and typed: 'Under the weather. A cold. Back in a few days.'
The reply came within the minute: 'Get well. I want you fit.'
Artyom put the phone down, face first.
He wasn't sick. He was hiding.
* * *
The days blurred into each other.
Each morning Artyom woke on Pasha's sofa and lay motionless, staring at the ceiling. Listened to the neighbour upstairs moving around, to the distant hum of traffic.
He got up. Drank coffee. Ate sometimes, more often didn't.
Pasha went out to the library, to his English class, somewhere. Artyom stayed behind. He turned on the television and didn't watch it. Picked up a book and didn't read it. Opened his laptop and closed it again.
His mind kept circling back.
The dream that morning. Vlad leaning over him, scorching breath, 'Sokolov, I want you.'
Falling into the snowdrift. Vlad above him, snowflakes in his hair, those bright relentless eyes.
An accidental touch. Heat.
And the kiss. Again and again, the kiss.
Cold lips, a hot mouth. Vlad's groan. His hands pulling him in through the jacket. Their hips pressed flush together and that sensation, the one that had buckled his knees.
He had kissed back. He had actually kissed back, and it had been the best thing he had ever felt.
And that was what frightened him most.
* * *
His mother called every day.
Artyom picked up every other time. Said he was fine. That he was busy. That he'd be home soon.
"Tyomochka," her voice carried that particular worry he knew better than his own heartbeat, "what's going on? Viktor's worried. Vlad too."
"Vlad too."
"Everything's alright, Mom. Just a lot on."
"A lot of what? You're on holiday."
"Exam prep. A project with Pasha."
Lies, lies, lies. He'd lost count.
"Are you coming home?"
"Soon."
"When?"
"I don't know, Mom. Soon."
She sighed and rang off.
Artyom stared at the dark screen and felt like the worst son alive.
Maybe I should look into a dorm room.
The thought had been circling for days. A university hall would mean freedom. No more returning to Viktor's house, no more seeing Vlad every morning, no more lying about 'coming home soon.' He could simply disappear. Start over.
He opened his laptop and searched 'university dorm vacancies.' Scrolled through a few pages. Closed it.
Mom wouldn't understand. She'd take it personally. Think it was about her.
But staying in that house was no longer something he could do.
* * *
After a few days, Pasha ran out of patience.
He came back from his class, dropped his bag in the corner, and sat down across from Artyom.
"Right, Sokolov. Enough."
"Enough of what?"
"You've been sitting on my sofa like a ghost for days. Not eating, not sleeping, not answering your phone. What happened?"
Artyom looked away.
"Nothing."
"Don't lie to me." Pasha leaned forward. "We've been friends for ten years. I know what you look like when you're not okay."
Silence.
"Is this about Lebedev?"
Artyom flinched as if he'd touched a live wire. He looked at Pasha.
"What makes you say that?"
"Ran into Voronov and Misha, we had coffee." Pasha leaned back in his chair. "They say Lebedev's been a wreck at practice. Snapping at everyone, playing like garbage. Boris Petrovich has pulled him aside twice." He narrowed his eyes. "Did you two have a fight?"
"Something like that."
"About what?"
Artyom opened his mouth. Closed it.
"He kissed me. And I liked it."
No. That was never going to come out. To anyone. Ever.
"Personal," he said, finally.
Pasha studied him for a long moment. Then nodded.
"Fine. You don't have to tell me. But tomorrow you're going to practice."
"Pasha"
"Not up for discussion." He stood. "You're captain. The team needs you. And you can't run from your problems forever."
He went to the kitchen. The fridge door thumped, water ran.
"You can't run forever."
Easy for him to say.
A week. A full week of running, and it was nearly over.
* * *
The next day, Artyom went back to the ice.
He arrived half an hour early and stood outside the rink staring at the familiar doors, unable to make himself walk through them.
"You're captain. The team needs you."
Pasha's words. Artyom took a slow breath and pushed the door open.
The locker room was empty. The familiar smell hit him sweat, ice, disinfectant. The familiar stalls, the benches, the team posters on the walls. He went to his spot and ran his palm across the cold metal.
How many times had he sat here? Hundreds? Thousands? This place had always been his refuge. Here everything was clear, simple, right.
Had been. Before Vlad.
He changed slowly, drawing out each step. Pulled on his gear, laced up his skates. His hands were slightly unsteady.
"Pull yourself together, Sokolov. It's just practice."
He stepped out onto the ice.
The cold air struck his face, and something inside him unclenched. His thoughts slowed, drew back. The familiar grind of blades, white ice stretching ahead, the hard glare of the overhead lights. Here he knew who he was. Here he was the captain, the best player on the rink, someone people could count on.
Not a bewildered boy who couldn't figure out his own heart.
He began skating in circles, building speed. Wind against his face, muscles coming alive, his head going quiet. No thoughts of kisses, of hands under a jacket, of dark eyes that had looked at him as if they wanted to consume him whole.
The team arrived gradually. Voices, laughter, the crack of sticks on ice.
"Captain's back!" Voronov called, gliding onto the rink. "You feeling better?"
"More or less."
"You look rough, honestly speaking."
"Thanks, Voronov." Artyom managed a thin smile. "You're not exactly dazzling yourself."
"Hey, I could take offence!"
The team laughed. Misha clapped him on the shoulder; Kostya nodded from the far end of the rink. The usual banter, the usual needling. Almost normal. Almost like before.
Artyom began to relax. Maybe it wasn't as hopeless as he'd thought. Maybe he could manage this. Just had to focus on the game, on the team, on
The locker room door swung open.
Artyom felt him before he saw him. Something in the air shifted thickened, charged. The hairs on the back of his neck rose. His stomach turned over.
He looked.
Vlad was skating onto the ice.
Their eyes met across the full width of the rink.
Vlad looked bad. Worse than Artyom had expected. Dark shadows beneath his eyes, his face drawn tight, his cheekbones sharper than before. He'd lost weight in these few days, or maybe Artyom was imagining it.
But his eyes. His eyes were burning. Something dark lived in them hungry, desperate, raw. Something that grabbed Artyom by the throat.
"He hasn't been sleeping either. All these nights. Neither has he."
One second. Two. Three.
Someone shouted something, Boris Petrovich's whistle cut through the noise, the team began to gather. Artyom blinked and broke contact.
He looked away first.
But he felt Vlad's gaze on his back for a long time after that heavy, scorching, impossible to shake.
* * *
Practice was hell.
Boris Petrovich drove them without mercy. Sprints, passing drills, attack combinations. Artyom pushed himself to the limit, past it. Anything not to think. Anything not to feel that gaze searing through his spine.
They worked in separate lines. Whether the coach had clocked the tension between them or it was pure coincidence, Artyom couldn't say.
He was grateful either way.
After practice he was first into the locker room. Stripped off his kit, grabbed his towel.
"Sokolov."
Vlad was in the doorway. Still in full gear, helmet hanging from one hand.
"We need to talk."
"There's nothing to talk about."
Artyom walked past him, shoulder catching his arm. Headed for the showers.
"Artyom!"
He didn't turn around.
* * *
The same thing happened the next day.
And the day after.
And the day after that.
Vlad tried to intercept him everywhere the locker room, the corridor, the car park. Artyom dodged, slipped away, ignored.
"Sokolov, stop running!"
"Back off."
"We need to talk!"
"I said back off."
The team began to notice. Exchanged glances, whispered amongst themselves. Artyom caught their looks, heard fragments.
"...at it again..."
"...captain's blanking him..."
"...what the hell is going on with those two..."
Fine. Let them speculate.
* * *
After one evening session, Boris Petrovich waved Artyom over.
"Sokolov, come to my office. Some paperwork needs signing."
On the desk sat a stack of documents: training load reports, medical check forms, parental consent for the junior squad.
"The administrator is off sick and I need all of this with the league by tomorrow morning. You're the most reliable one I've got go through it, make sure nothing's missing."
Artyom nodded, settled into the chair. He worked through the papers for half an hour, checking signatures, cross-referencing names. The coach drank his tea in the corner and said nothing.
"Thank you," he said when the last sheet was done. "Go and get cleaned up. And rest you look exhausted."
"I will."
Artyom returned to the locker room.
Empty. Stalls shut, benches bare. Everyone had gone.
He let out a long, slow breath. A moment to himself at last.
He stripped off his gear, dropped it in his stall. Grabbed a towel and shower gel. Went to the showers.
The hot water hit his shoulders and he closed his eyes, both palms flat against the tiles. He let himself simply stand there and exist.
His body ached pleasantly from the session, but his mind had finally gone still. Under the sound of the water he could simply be. Nobody.
For the first time in a week, something like peace settled over him.
"We need to talk."
Artyom spun around.
Vlad was standing in the shower room doorway. Jeans and a black t-shirt, barefoot he'd clearly only kicked off his shoes. Hair dishevelled, his expression set.
"What the hell?" Artyom pressed back against the wall. His heart threw itself against his ribs. "How are you still here?"
"I waited in the locker room." Vlad stepped inside. The spray from the nearest showerhead caught his shoulder; a dark stain spread across his t-shirt, but he didn't notice or didn't care. "You've been running from me for a week. That's enough."
"Get out."
"No."
"Lebedev, I mean it"
"And I mean it too." Another step. Less than a metre between them now. Hot water fell across them both, filling the air with steam. Vlad's t-shirt was soaked through, clinging to every line of his body, and Artyom could make out every muscle beneath the wet fabric. "You blocked my number. You stare straight through me at practice. You bolt the moment I get near you."
"Because there's nothing to say."
"There's everything to say."
Vlad took one more step. Close enough now that Artyom could feel the warmth coming off him even through the steam. He could see drops of water on Vlad's jaw, his neck, his lips.
"You kissed me back," Vlad said, quietly. "You groaned against my mouth. You grabbed me and pulled me closer. And then you ran."
"I didn't run"
"You ran. And you know it."
"Because it's wrong!" His voice cracked. Water ran into his mouth. "You're my stepbrother! We can't just"
"Can't what?"
Vlad leaned in. Centimetres between their faces. His pupils were blown wide in the dim light.
"Can't want each other?" His voice dropped to something low and rough. "Too late for that, Sokolov. I already do. And so do you."
"No"
"Yes."
Vlad pressed him back against the wall. Cold tiles against his spine, the shock of the contrast with the scalding water making Artyom shudder or perhaps it was Vlad's body against his, wet fabric sliding against bare skin.
"Tell me you don't want this," Vlad murmured against his lips. "Say it, and I'll leave."
Artyom opened his mouth.
Nothing came out.
Because it would have been the greatest lie of his life.
He wanted this. God, he wanted it so badly it had been eating him from the inside.
Vlad's smile surfaced that same maddening twist of his mouth. The one Artyom had spent three years calling hatred.
"That's what I thought."
And he kissed him.
Hungrily. Without the caution he'd shown on the porch. He kissed him as though he had every right to, as though they had done this a thousand times, as though Artyom's body belonged to him.
And Artyom let go.
He seized Vlad by the shoulders and pulled him in. Kissed him back with the same ferocity, the same hunger. Then his hands moved lower, grabbed the soaked t-shirt and tugged it upward.
"Take it off," he breathed against his mouth.
Vlad drew back just long enough, and together they stripped the shirt off him. The sodden fabric slapped against the shower floor. Artyom ran his palms across his chest, his stomach hot skin, slick with water.
Vlad groaned and pulled him back in. Their mouths locked again and Artyom groaned too, out loud, not holding back.
Vlad's hands moved over his sides, his back, gripped his hips and dragged him flush. Artyom felt him hard and urgent through wet denim.
"Christ," Vlad breathed against his mouth. "You have no idea how long I've wanted this."
Artyom didn't answer. He was already working the button on Vlad's jeans. Dragged the zip down, shoved denim and boxers far enough to free him.
Vlad made a low, broken sound when Artyom's hand closed around him.
"Artyom..."
His name in that voice sounded like a prayer. Like a curse. Like everything at once.
Vlad's hand traced down Artyom's stomach. Fingers closed around him bare, drenched, nowhere to hide.
Artyom cried out, his hips jolting forward of their own accord. The sensation was too vivid, too sharp. Someone else's hand, sure and deliberate.
Vlad began to move. Slowly at first, then faster. His thumb swept across the tip and Artyom's head fell back against the tiles; he didn't care.
"Look at me," Vlad said.
Artyom opened his eyes. Met that dark, ravenous gaze.
They moved in the same rhythm Vlad's hand on him, his hand on Vlad. Fast, desperate, greedy. The water streamed over them both, washing everything away, mingling with the sounds they made.
"I want to watch you," Vlad breathed. "I want to know what your face looks like."
Artyom groaned. He reached up and found his mouth, kissed him hard and breathless while their hands worked each other toward the edge.
He felt it build that tightening low in his belly, the wave rearing.
"I'm going to" he exhaled.
"Come on." Vlad's rhythm quickened. "Let go."
Artyom cried out. The orgasm crashed through him, arching his back, emptying his lungs. It went on and on, his whole body shaking, his fingers digging into Vlad's shoulder hard enough to bruise.
Vlad followed. Artyom felt him shudder in his hand, felt the heat of it against his stomach, swept away by the water. He heard the rough groan, felt Vlad press his forehead down onto his shoulder, breathing in broken bursts.
They stayed like that, pressed together. The water washed it all away. Their hearts slammed in unison.
Then Vlad lifted his head and looked at him. Something unfamiliar in his eyes. Something quiet.
"I've thought about that for a long time," he said.
Artyom didn't know what to say. He stood there, back against the wall, looking at the person he had despised for three years. The person he wanted so desperately it had been unravelling him from the inside.
Vlad smiled. That same smile, but different now. Something in it that looked almost like understanding.
He stepped back. Fastened his jeans. Bent and collected the wet t-shirt from the floor, pulled it back on without wringing it out it plastered itself to his body.
"See you around, Sokolov."
He walked out of the shower room without looking back.
Artyom was alone.
The water was still running, still hot and relentless. He slid down the wall and sat on the wet tiles.
Stared at nothing.
"What have I done?"
* * *
Vlad walked down the corridor toward the locker room.
His heart was still hammering. His lips were still warm. His body remembered every touch.
He stopped at his stall, leaned his back against the cold metal, and closed his eyes.
"You finally gave in, Sokolov."
The smile came without him trying. Artyom Sokolov the perfect captain, correct about everything, righteous to the point of being insufferable had come completely undone in his hands. Had groaned his name. Had looked at him as if Vlad were the only person left in the world.
But somewhere deeper, in the place Vlad tried not to look, something else had stirred.
He had been caught.
Because this wasn't just want. It wasn't desire or a power game or something to prove.
When Artyom had come when his face had broken open, when he'd breathed Vlad's name something had clicked into place. Something had settled, like a key turning in a lock.
And that terrified him far more than he was ready to admit.
He opened his eyes and looked at the closed shower room door.
"What are you doing to me, Sokolov?" he said, quietly, into the empty room.
No answer.
Vlad dressed and left.
Outside it was snowing. Fine, needle-sharp January snow. Vlad turned his face up and let the flakes dissolve against his flushed skin.
"And now what?"
He didn't know.
But one thing he understood with absolute certainty: there was no going back.
For either of them.
* * *
Three days had passed since the shower. Three days in which they said nothing to each other. Artyom arrived at practice first, left last. He avoided the locker room when Vlad was in it -- avoided his eyes, his voice, his presence.
But today it didn't work.
Artyom sat in the locker room pretending to fiddle with his skate laces.
The team had gone. Voronov had clapped him on the shoulder on the way out; Misha had hollered something about beers. Artyom nodded, smiled, gave one-word answers. He was waiting for everyone to clear out.
Waiting for Vlad to leave.
Vlad wasn't leaving.
He sat on the bench opposite, unlacing his skates with excruciating deliberateness. Too slowly. Artyom felt his gaze pressing into his back, steady and persistent.
"Sokolov."
Artyom didn't look up.
"Sokolov, stop hiding."
"I'm not hiding."
"Really?" Vlad stood and came closer. Artyom kept his eyes down, caught only the flash of black trainers with white laces near his knees. "Three days you've been looking straight through me. Not answering messages. Vanishing from practice the second I get near you."
"I've had things to do."
"You're lying."
Artyom finally looked up. Vlad stood a metre away, arms crossed over his chest. His face was tense and in his eyes something Artyom hadn't seen there before. Not a smirk. Not irritation.
Exhaustion. And something close to despair.
"What do you want, Lebedev?"
"I want you to come home."
Artyom blinked.
"What?"
"Home. To your mother." Vlad dragged a hand through his hair a nervous gesture, wrong-looking on him. "You haven't been there since New Year's. Irina is..." He stopped. "She's sad. I've seen her wipe her eyes when she thought no one was looking."
The guilt was sharp and immediate.
"That has nothing to do with her."
"I know." Vlad stepped closer. "It's because of me. Because of what happened in the shower."
"Let's not."
"Why? Because it's true?" Another step. Less than a metre between them. "You ran because of me. And now your mother is suffering because you can't bring yourself to"
"Can't bring myself to what?" Artyom stood up. They were face to face. "Look you in the eye after what we"
He stopped. He couldn't put words to it.
"Come back," Vlad said, quietly. "For her sake. Please."
"And if I don't?"
Something moved across Vlad's face.
"Then I'll have to tell her. The real reason you left."
Artyom went cold.
"You wouldn't dare."
"I don't want to." Vlad's voice cracked slightly. "But I don't know what else to do. You won't talk to me. Won't answer. You just hide. And she thinks it's her fault. That she did something wrong by choosing Viktor."
Artyom turned away. Pressed his fists against his thighs.
His mother. He had barely thought of her these past days, too lost in his own panic, too busy running from Vlad, from what had happened between them, from himself.
"I just..." Vlad continued. His voice was tired, worn thin. "I've been trying to reach you since New Year's."
"Because there's nothing to"
"There is." Vlad moved toward him. "What happened in the shower"
"Nothing happened."
"It happened. And you know that."
They were too close again. Artyom could feel the warmth of his body, the scent of his cologne the same one that scattered his thoughts every time.
"Come home," Vlad said softly. "I promise I'll keep my distance. I won't touch you. It won't happen again."
"I'm not convinced."
"I can. For Irina. For you."
Artyom studied him. The dark rings under his eyes. The tight line of his jaw. The lips he knew the taste of far too well.
"I'll think about it," he said at last.
Vlad exhaled. Nodded. Stepped back.
"Alright."
Artyom grabbed his bag and moved toward the door.
"Sokolov."
He stopped in the doorway.
Vlad stood in the middle of the empty room. Hands in his pockets, shoulders squared. Looking at Artyom as though there were something he needed to say. Something important.
He said nothing.
"See you," he offered instead.
Artyom nodded and walked out.
* * *
The rink lobby was half-empty. A few people at the vending machines, a couple of fans studying the fixture board. Artyom moved through them toward the exit.
"Vlad!"
He stopped and turned.
Nastya was standing at the reception desk in a pink puffer jacket and white boots. Hair loose, makeup fresh. She was smiling broadly.
When she spotted Vlad behind Artyom, she brightened further. She stepped forward and touched his forearm, tilted her head to one side.
"I've been waiting an hour! You usually disappear so fast after practice."
Vlad nodded, but his eyes slid past Nastya and landed directly on Artyom.
Their gazes locked.
Nastya talked on, oblivious to what was passing between the two of them. Her fingers stroked his sleeve; she leaned in closer, laughed at something she said herself.
"...about Saturday," Artyom caught. "After the game everyone's going to a club. Coming?"
"Maybe," said Vlad, eyes on Artyom.
"Please." She shifted closer still. "It'll be fun. I'll be there."
Something hot and sharp rose in Artyom's chest. He remembered every second of that hour in the shower their hands, the kissing, those blown-out pupils, the tremor in Vlad's voice.
And here was Vlad now, nodding at her, answering her, letting her touch him. Watching Artyom the whole time. As if none of it meant anything. As if it could all be simply written off.
"We'll see," Vlad told Nastya, without moving his eyes.
"I'll be hoping!" She rose on her toes and kissed his cheek.
Artyom turned and walked out.
Quickly. Without looking back.
He pushed through the door into the cold. Crossed the car park toward his Camry.
"Why am I angry? What right do I have to be angry?"
The keys shook slightly in his hand as he reached the car.
"Sokolov!"
He stopped with his hand on the door handle.
Footsteps on the tarmac. Quick, closing in.
"Sokolov, wait."
Vlad caught up with him at the car. No jacket, just a hoodie, breathing quickly, cheeks red from the cold.
"What?"
"It meant nothing."
Artyom laughed. Short and bitter.
"I don't care."
"You do."
"I don't." He pulled the door open. "Do whatever you want. With whoever you want."
Vlad grabbed his arm.
"Don't pretend you're indifferent."
"Let go of me."
"No."
Artyom turned around. They were too close, almost touching. Breath clouded between them in the freezing air.
"What do you want me to say?" He was nearly hissing. "That it eats me alive watching her hang off you? That it takes everything I have not to that I"
He stopped. Clenched his jaw.
"God. Listen to yourself."
Vlad's eyes changed. That familiar, unbearable hunger ignited in them.
"Keep going."
"No."
"You're jealous."
"I'm not."
"You are." Vlad stepped forward. Pressed Artyom back against the car. "And you want to know something? I like it."
Artyom felt the air leave him. Vlad was too close his arms braced against the car on either side of Artyom, boxing him in completely.
"I wasn't flirting with her," Vlad said, quietly. "I'm not going anywhere on Saturday. I don't want anyone except"
He stopped.
Artyom stared at him. At those lips, right there. At those dark eyes with the car park lights reflected in them.
"Except who?" he whispered.
Vlad leaned in. Their lips almost touching.
"Come home," he breathed. "Please."
Silence. Artyom felt it on his skin the current running between them, the air gone dense and electric.
He swallowed hard.
"Alright," he said, at last. "I'll come back."
Vlad exhaled. The relief in it was almost painful to hear. He stepped back, giving Artyom room.
"Thank you."
Artyom nodded. He got into the car and started the engine. Vlad stayed where he was, hands tucked into the front pocket of his hoodie, watching Artyom reverse out of the space.
In the rear-view mirror, Artyom could see his silhouette under the streetlamp a lone figure watching the car until it disappeared.
He tightened his grip on the wheel.
"I'm going home. For Mom."
Only for Mom.
23Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡFZwZbJWZDW
23Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡZwOiOTHSSm
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