d e v i l i s h

Pytor never said he can’t, though; besides, it won’t be Sonya bursting through. It’ll be one of his ghosts. 

Opening the doors, he steps onto the balcony with a lungful of cool, night air. For a moment, he just stands there, breathing in the solitude of the city ―

Then he notices Leoniy. 

He’s leaning on the railing, almost dangerously far, a cigarette dangling from his fingers. The same moonbeams that silver the house into a fey palace caress his face with cold, beautiful fingers, picking out his freckles, the sharpness of his cheekbones. When he glances up, his gaze makes something hot flare in Sonya’s chest, despite the chill of the night. 

“Oh, um― I, I didn’t know you were― I can, can- I can go―” Sonya feels his cheeks flushing as he backs away, willing the house to swallow him up again.

“It’s alright,” says Leoniy, a little too quickly. “Stay, if you want.”

He shouldn’t. He really shouldn’t ― but Leoniy’s smile pins him in place, so he lingers.

St. Petersburg at night is something almost beautiful. Its colours have been reduced to shades of blue, from duck-egg grey to deep navy; the perennial mist that hangs over the factories twinkles with ice crystals, veiling the worst parts of the slums in its spectral shroud. For once, it’s quiet ― not silent, of course, it’s never silent, but it’s calm. 

“It’s pretty, isn’t it?” asks Leoniy, glancing back at Sonya ― and somehow it doesn’t feel like he’s just referring to the city.

Sonya hums his agreement, shuffling a little closer. 

“This is the best way to see the city, if you ask me,” Leoniy murmurs. “Looking down; you can see all kinds of things you’d never see from the streets.”

That piques his curiosity; he comes closer still, until he’s leaning against the balustrade, shivering at the coolness of the marble. 

“Look, down there―'' Sonya follows the glow of Leoniy’s cigarette, to where a lone, flickering gas lamp bathes an alleyway with thin, yellow light. Within the sallow circle, there’s a young woman playing the violin: too far for Sonya to hear anything but the faintest breath of music, but too mesmerising to miss. “I suppose it’s nice to be reminded that you aren’t the only person awake at this hour.”

“Yeah,” murmurs Sonya, heartbeat stuttering in his chest. Not the only person. How long has Leoniy been coming here, walking unseen like one of his ghosts? How long have they been just missing each other?

He doesn’t dare look at Leoniy’s face again, in case he’s caught staring; instead, Sonya’s gaze drops to his hand, dangling languidly over the balcony. A slender hand, fingers pink from the cold ― illuminated by the smouldering end of his cigarette, and hazy with smoke.

“You can try it, if you want,” says Leoniy, cutting into Sonya’s reverie.

“Sorry?”

Leoniy laughs, moonlight flashing in his smile.  

“You don’t need to be so coy, Sonya ― here ―” And suddenly, he’s leaning in, breath fluttering against Sonya’s cheek; he brings the cigarette to Sonya’s lips, smoke obscuring the merry glitter of his eyes.

“I, I don’t―” But Leoniy’s fingers brush Sonya’s lips, and he gasps, inhaling anyway. Smoke rushes down his throat, reaching its burning fingers into lungs, and he coughs, gagging on the foul smell. 

He can feel Leoniy’s hand on his back, rubbing soft, soothing circles.

“It’s alright, your first time is almost always like this,” He says; somehow that softens the burn, until Sonya can draw an unsteady breath. 

“Wow,” he murmurs, trying to ignore the presence of Leoniy’s hand, lingering on the small of his back. “I don’t, don’t like it.”

Leoniy grins, taking a drag and letting the smoke mingle with the icy mist. 

“I didn’t think you would,” he says, hand finally drifting away to run through his hair. “You’re too good.”

Good. Sonya can’t help the warmth that word stirs, even though he knows it isn’t true — upyrs can’t be good. They can only be tamed. 

“Not, not, not really.”

“Yes really.” Leoniy turns back to face him, eyes sparkling with an intensity that makes Sonya’s stomach flip. “You’re so good. Better than me — hell, better than my father. Far better than him.”

“No—” That isn’t right; Sonya can’t let Leoniy delude himself like that. You wouldn’t call a wolf, even a tame one, good. You wouldn’t sit next to it like you thought it’d never bite. “No, that’s, that’s not-”

“Hush.” Leoniy’s hand settles over Sonya’s, a burst of warmth against the marble of the balcony. “Can’t I have the last word for once? I don’t care if that’s not objectively true or whatever. You’re good enough for me.”

Good enough for me. Sonya feels like he’s going to faint; it’s all crashing down on him, the words ringing in his head, the hand resting on his, the smell of smoke and cologne and blood, the sound — heartbeats, his, Leoniy’s, the dull, distant chime of church bells — 

“Sorry,” He chokes out, stumbling to his feet, lurching towards the still-open doors. Not daring to glance back, in case Leoniy’s gaze makes him stay again. 

“Sonya? Are you alright?”

No. Don’t look. There isn’t a world in which he deserves Leoniy’s quiet affection, in which Leoniy deserves the burden of an upyr that thinks it can pass for human. 

With Sonya, it’s different. His little kitten needs more attention, for starters, more guidance — and Pyotr wants to give him what he needs. It’s a delicate balance between indulgence and cruelty, keeping the boy’s upyr nature at bay while reminding him he’s loved; after their first test, when Pyotr found him still chanting the Jesus Prayer while he vomited blood, he’s learnt to lead with the carrot, to be patient. That keeps most of the guilt silent.

He’s given Sonya the run of the library, something to do while he’s attending to business. How old the boy actually is is unknowable, his face made all the younger by starvation, but he’s old enough to have some reading.

It’s nice to walk past the door, now perennially open, and catch glimpses of Sonya nestled into one of the armchairs.

That is, it’s nice until he walks past and sees Sonya stretched out, listless, on the sofa. Just like Genya, at the end of her life. 

Stepping into the library, Pyotr can’t suppress his concern. Sonya’s just lying there, staring at the fire; his face is far too pale, bluish-green veins traced out across his cheeks. 

“Sonya?” He brushes a hand over that vein-stained cheek, half-gasping at how cold it is. 

“Nghh?” Sonya blinks, unfocused.

“Can you look at me, little one?”

After some effort, he does; his pupils are blown, black swallowing the forget-me-not blue of his eyes. 

“Well done,” murmurs Pyotr, brushing the hair away from Sonya’s forehead. His skin is still corpse-cold. 

Gently shifting Sonya, Pyotr settles on the sofa, gathering the boy into his lap. At a first, untrained glance there doesn’t seem to be anything wrong with him: no wound seeping beneath his clothes, no sickness; as far as he’s aware, few human illnesses can touch upyrs. Certainly not consumption. And yet — he’s still lying there, barely moving except to nuzzle closer for warmth. His skin still feels paper-thin, heartbeat flickering lazily beneath Pyotr’s fingers. 

“What’s wrong, darling?” He asks, because he doesn’t know, and he can’t bear the thought of losing his beautiful boy. His little miracle. 

Sonya just moans, shivering. 

“Come on.” All Pyotr can do is hold him close, try to share his body heat. The opposite of what he had to do with Genya, when her body was burning up from the inside out — but it makes his spine crawl with the same fear. “You have to help me help you, alright?”

With an effort, Sonya drags his dilated gaze up to meet Pyotr’s. “Hungry,” he whispers, barely more than a rasping breath. 

Hungry. Of course. Pyotr wants to hit himself for being so stupid, take someone’s name in vain because it was right there, the problem he didn’t even think about. Upyrs need blood. Any blood. That of their loved ones will birth them, but even after that — his little sparrow has been starving. 

Sinful as it is, he can’t let Sonya die. Can’t let him live in this dulled half-existence, either. 

“Oh, I’m sorry, little one,” he murmurs. “I can help, let me just — I’ll be back before you know it.” 

When he lays Sonya down, the boy whines, weakly snatching at his sleeve.

“I know, darling,” Pyotr says, leaning down. Hesitating for just a moment before he presses a kiss to Sonya’s marble-cool hairline.

The shiver of pleasure that dances through his boy makes it worth it — even when he has to leave. 

Hurrying through the house, memories snap at Pyotr’s heels: memories of this selfsame journey, down the main stairs, through the hallway, further down to the servants’ quarters. Genya used to call him Dante, descending to hell for her — perhaps Sonya has read a bit of the Divine Comedy. Perhaps they should read it together. 

The servants’ cellar is cool as a crypt, the worn stone walls lined with quiet chatter. It withers away when the footmen notice he’s there — they all bow, quick and stiff, watching him with rabbit-wide eyes. 

“I need one of you to find me the fattest five rats you can, and quickly,” Pyotr says, hoping the sternness of his voice will carry the strangeness of the request. “Bring them to the library as soon as you can.”

“Yes, sir,” one of them squeaks out, a red-headed twig of a boy barely older than sixteen.

Pyotr watches the creatures scuttle away, out the back door, before he hurries back to the library; he doesn’t want to leave Sonya alone, not when his mind is filled with blood, the soft stain of it sinking into the sofa, a copper tang in the air. 

It’s sinful to be so attached to an upyr. Perhaps it’s the boy’s sinful working on him, a sign that Sonya’s beast needs to be tamed again. Perhaps it’s just the folly of an old man — but he hasn’t felt this young in years. 

Sonya’s still lying on the sofa like a broken doll, head lolling slightly; even his lips are thin, blue, parted so he can drag in shaky breaths. 

“Oh, Sonya.” Concern shivers through Pyotr’s spine as he gathers Sonya into his lap again, wincing at how ice-cold he is. “It’s alright, little one. I’ve got you now.” 

Blinking up at him, Sonya barely seems to recognise his presence. He’s so small; Pyotr can feel every rib through Sonya’s shirt, fine and flimsy as a sparrow; if he wanted to, he’s sure he could crush him by simply tightening his grip. Even Genya felt more substantial, towards the end. 

So fragile. Pyotr hates the feeling of utter helplessness as he waits, watching Sonya’s eyelids flutter, willing him to hold on just a little longer. 

“I know it’s hard, darling,” he murmurs, carding his fingers through Sonya’s hair. “I know you’re hungry, I know you’re tired, but you’ve just got to wait a little longer. 

He lets himself believe the little moan that falls from Sonya’s lips is one of assent. 

After an interminably long time, the ginger footman scurries in, five dead rats swinging by their tails in his hand. Fat, sleek sewer rats, the kind that grow old and nasty on the refuse of the city. 

“Here, sir—” he dumps them on a side table with a short, sharp bow, glancing from Sonya’s pallid face to the door. 

“Yes, go,” says Pyotr, grinning wryly at the way he bolts from the room like someone put a match to his trousers. 

Once he’s out the door, though, Pyotr’s attention is only for the boy in his arms. 

“Sonya?” he says, giving him a little shake. He whines, soft and miserable, staring up at Pyotr with unfocused, cow-lashed eyes. “Sonya, darling, you need to eat—”

Grabbing one of the rats, Pyotr grimaces at the smell, the stench of St. Petersburg that will inevitably cling to him for hours. Still, he’s smelt worse. Seen worse; he has the army to thank for that. 

The smell seems to perk Sonya up; he tries to lift his head, nuzzling further into Pyotr’s lap.

“That’s it, little one—” Pyotr makes the mistake of allowing himself to hope, bringing the rat closer. A twisted kind of offering. 

For a moment, it seems like Sonya will accept it, a faint flash of fang glinting in the firelight. Then — he glances back up, eyes shining with tears.

“I, I, I— I can’t,” he says; Pyotr winces at how fragile his voice is. More breath than speech. “It’s a, a sin.”

“You need to eat,” Pyotr repeats; he pulls the knife from his waistcoat pocket, slashing under the rat’s chin. Blood drips onto Sonya’s cheek. His body shudders, but still he only stares, terror plain in his eyes. “Just try, please. For me.”

“No- please, I, I can’t- I mustn’t-” Pyotr should be proud of the fear in Sonya’s voice, fear of the almighty — yet that fear will kill his little sparrow. He couldn’t save Genya, but he can save Sonya. 

“It’s a necessary evil, darling,” He says, almost pleading. “Besides, they’re only rats. Pests, for God’s sake— people would thank you for taking care of a few of them. Please.”

Sonya wavers for a moment, trembling.

“We can pray for their souls later, if you want,” says Pyotr, bringing the rat to Sonya’s lips. Willing him to just eat. 

Finally, he gives in, lapping at the wound — Pyotr barely has time to release a sigh of relief before Sonya latches on, pupils constricting with the frenzy of the feed. Body still trembling, now with a desperate energy. One rat drained to a sack of bones and flesh; Pyotr grabs the next one, almost frightened by the speed at which the colour bleeds back into Sonya’s skin. 

Like this, teeth buried in sewer-stinking fur, cheeks rosy and bloodstained, he looks hardly human.

Because he isn’t, Pyotr reminds himself, tightening his grip; the last time he saw Sonya like this, he’d been starved of ordinary sustenance as well, a fledgling tossed from the nest. Now — Pyotr isn’t quite sure whether sparrow is the right bird. Whether he should make it sparrowhawk. 

He needn’t worry, though; once the last rat is drained, Sonya falls back against him, breath coming in shaky gasps. 

“I’m, I’m sorry,” he murmurs — and  just like that, he’s crying, quiet, shoulder-wrenching sobs. “I, I, I didn’t, I didn’t want to — I was trying to, to, to control it-”

“I know, pet, I know,” says Pyotr, the words pressed into the top of Sonya’s head with a kiss. He has to breathe through his own relief, the dizzy release of adrenaline. “You don’t need to apologise.”

“I, I sinned,” says Sonya, voice thick with tears.

“I know.” Even if it was his nature, the beast playing in the jungle of his soul — it was still a sin. Still a stain on his boy’s accomplishments, if not atoned for. 

God’s presence is everywhere; Sonya knows that, knows it like he knows his own mind, which is to say, hardly at all, but with great conviction. He can’t remember who told him it, whether he was even told at all, but he knows it. The divine presence infuses everything, every sigh, every sunbeam, it’s coiled around it all, separated from us by the ephemeral barrier called life.

Sonya knows, too, that to die is to be fully subsumed by that glorious presence. He feels almost a residual longing for it, tempered by fear. Those who’ve lived good lives, said good prayers: for them, God’s full, undiluted presence will be a balm. The highest form of ecstasy. Those who’ve lived profligate lives, who hate God and hate themselves: God’s presence will be a torment.

And those who aren’t fit to call their existence a life, their self human — vampires, upyrs, the most unholy kind of sinner? For them, the terror of God’s presence will obliterate. 

His stomach twists a little at the thought, fingers of one hand picking at the skin of the other. All he’s been able to do is sit on the bed, staring at his hands, a single thought growing and growing and growing until it consumes his mind.

You’re damned. Dirty, sinful — you’re a damned creature. 

The door opens, cutting into his thoughts; Sonya glances up, a bolt of adrenaline rushing through his chest.

Oh. It’s only Pyotr. 

“Morning, Sonya,” he says, one hand on the doorframe. “How are you settling in?”

“Um— I’m, I’m, I’m— alright.” Sonya’s gaze drops back to his hands, shame curled in his stomach. Perhaps he would’ve starved, wherever Pyotr found him. Perhaps he deserves to. “Scared.”

Pyotr steps in, coming to join Sonya on the bed. His presence still ignites something, a frightened sparrow pulling at Sonya’s chest, telling him to go — but the only way he might be saved is by trusting. 

“Why are you scared, little one?” asks Pyotr, putting an arm around Sonya. He only half flinches at it, leaning into the warmth. 

“I don’t, don’t want to, to, to- to go to hell,” Sonya murmurs, almost choking on the word. His throat is tight with unshed tears.

Pyotr laughs. Gently, almost understandingly, but the sound still makes the hairs on his arms prickle.

“You’re not going to hell, precious,” he says, the warmth of his presence almost making Sonya believe it. “Not if you do as I say. Remember? All you have to do is follow, and you’ll be saved.”

Trust. Follow. Sonya adds it to his list. 

“I can’t, can’t say His name,” he murmurs, fingers twisting around each other.

“It takes time, and practice—” Pyotr pauses, like he’s had an idea. “Get on your knees.”

Sonya’s instincts, the fluttering sparrow, the deeper, sharper thing that still cries out for blood, baulk at the command — but he doesn’t have a choice. Trust. Follow. Sliding off the bed, he kneels at Pyotr’s feet. 

“Do you remember the Jesus Prayer?” Pyotr’s thumb ghosts over Sonya’s cheek.

Does he? There are only shards left, shards that hurt to think about. Only brief flashes of prayer, of a small, dingy church. 

Sonya’s flush of shame only deepens as he shakes his head. 

“Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on me, a sinner,” Pyotr intones, with honeyed reverence. “You say it.”

“Lord, Lord, Lord—” Sonya’s throat tightens in a sudden burst of agony that makes his head spin. “Lord—” 

Jesus. He can’t say it. Not out loud; the word rings in his mind, pain bursting through his temple. 

“Come on, little one. I know you can do it.” Pyotr’s hand slides up, settling in Sonya’s hair. Comforting, for now.

“Lord Je—” Sonya yelps as the pain returns, crawling down his throat, sharp as broken glass. “I, I can’t.” 

“You can. You will.” Fingers tighten in Sonya’s hair, pulling his head back. “Try again.” 

“Lord, Lord Jesus—” The name slides out, and Sonya gasps as pain flares again, dancing through his throat, going down down down, spreading through his chest, biting, twisting. “No, please. I’m not, not, not worthy.”

“You won’t be if you don’t try,” Pyotr snaps, yanking Sonya’s head up so their gazes meet. His eyes are sharp, predator-eyes, eyes that say do as I say, or I’ll make you regret it, eyes that make Sonya want to run. “I don’t want to do this to you, little one. I need you to make an effort for me.”

Sonya gives a soft moan, falling back onto his knees. He can’t; even just sounding the prayer out in his mind makes his head spin with pain. Worse than that, he shouldn’t. Salvation isn’t something an upyr deserves.

Yet— the fear is worse than the pain. Fear of God’s all-consuming presence. Fear of Pyotr, what he’ll do if he fails. 

“Lord Jesus,” he murmurs, a gasp following. It feels like his throat has been filled with hot coals; tears course down his cheeks, and he doesn’t even notice. “Son, son, son of- of-” 

Still, he can’t say it. Still, Pyotr’s hand tightens a little more, forcing him to put more weight on his aching knees.

“I’m, I’m trying,” Sonya chokes out, chest heaving with sobs. He can barely see through the tears, barely think through the blinding pain. 

“Not hard enough.” Suddenly, Pyotr releases Sonya’s hair, sending him slumping down in a heap. The look he gives him, two parts contempt, one part sorrow, makes shame burn through Sonya’s chest. “I’m trying to help you, darling. I can’t do that if you’re not willing to put in the effort.”

With that, Pyotr steps past him, like he’s stepping over a pile of manure in the street. His receding footsteps only make Sonya sob harder, sliding over until he’s curled up on the floor, shaking.

It hurts, hurts with a throbbing, burning intensity. It hurts, but the shame hurts far more. The thought of being damned, not just in God’s eyes, but Pyotr’s.

Sonya looks down at his hands, only now noticing the crescents of blood in his palms. The hands of a sinner. 

Hauling himself back onto his knees, he winces at how much they ache — but he can’t give up. He isn’t allowed to give up.

St. Petersburg is hot, and it’s so grand it hurts to look at. Houses that look like wedding cakes, continental yellow with colonnaded facades; trade buildings, carved and imposing, glowering down from squares filled with people. When the lines of buildings part, Sonya can catch glimpses of the sea in the gaps between them. When he can bring himself to look up, squinting against sunlight that burns his eyes, he can see the spires of a fortress looming against the sulky summer sky.

Peter and Paul Fortress, Pyotr tells him — somewhere in the back of his mind, Sonya realises he’s been keeping a running commentary going, a litany of place names that sounds like a prayer. Almost all of them simply wash over him, subsumed by the city’s magnificence.

Eventually, the troika driver turns off onto a quieter road. The houses here are grand, swallowing up whole swathes of streetfront; you could maybe fit a whole village in just one of them.

“Here we are, little one,” Pyotr says, as the driver stops in front of one of the — palaces might not be the right word, but it isn’t far off. “Home.”

Sonya’s stomach twists a little as he’s handed down, fingers tightening around Pyotr’s hand. Whatever the building is, with its columns, its balconies, its deceptively salmon-pink exterior, it hardly feels like a home. 

If anything, the door reminds Sonya of a mouth as it opens; he almost freezes on the threshold, but Pyotr hustles him through.

Home. It’s blessedly cool inside, like a church — only the church from a shard of Sonya’s memories could come close to approximating the grandeur of the entrance hall. Smooth, lacquered wood beneath Sonya’s feet; red on the walls, laden with paintings and lavish tapestries. A twin staircase branches out, upwards, delving into the bowels of the house. Shafts of light from the windows fall on its steps, illuminating them with hazy summer sun.

“What do you think, then?” Pyotr nudges him, almost playfully, knocking him off balance. “It’s a far cry from that filthy little shack, isn’t it?”

“It’s, it’s nice,” murmurs Sonya, still lost in the intricacies of the newel post. It’s carved in the shape of a lion, eying him hungrily. 

Pyotr chuckles, putting an arm round Sonya. “Nice. I’ll give you that, little one, though most people go for magnificent.”

Sonya nods — but his attention has been captured by movement on the stairs. 

The man descending is, quite possibly, the most beautiful man Sonya has ever seen.  More beautiful than any of the faces he can dredge up from his memories, at least: he’s tall, with an easy grace to his movements that make him look like he’s stepped out of one of the oil paintings on the wall. Certainly, the Divine Artist has made him a masterpiece, accentuating his fresh complexion with brown curls and rose-blushed cheeks. The duck-egg blue suit he’s wearing only serves to make him stand out against the red walls.

“Ah, отца!” he says, hurrying down the stairs. “We weren’t expecting you back until—” Whatever he was going to say withers away when his gaze meets Sonya’s. “Who’s this?”

Sonya feels Pyotr stiffen, perhaps out of annoyance. Perhaps jealousy; up close, the man looks all the more like one of God’s masterpieces. 

“Leoniy,” Pyotr says, voice icy with disapproval. “You’re not a kicked puppy, there’s no need to run and greet me.” 

“But—”

“Save it. This is Sonya,” Pyotr gives him a proud little squeeze. “I rescued him from a somewhat sordid incident involving starving peasants;  he’ll be staying with us for a while.” 

Starving peasants. Sonya wants to say he doesn’t remember anything like that, wants to stand by the unease twisting in his gut — but he doesn’t remember even a single sliver. Pyotr’s words mean nothing, and everything. 

“Welcome,” says the man — Leoniy — stepping forward to offer Sonya his hand. “Leoniy Petrovich Zaytsev — but since you’re staying here, you can call me Leosha.”

Pyotr nudges him, and Sonya shakes Leoniy’s hand, chest fluttering at the contact. A son, then, not a friend or rival.

“Why don’t you show Sonya to his room, Leoniy?” says Pyotr. 

“I was just about to—”

“The cream one will do; I need to make arrangements with Masha.”

With that, Pyotr gently pushes Sonya towards Leoniy, striding off down a corridor. 

Leoniy sighs, running a hand through his hair. 

“I was just about to go out,” he says. “Never mind. Follow me, I’ll show you where you’ll be staying. 

Sonya trots after him as they begin to make their way up the stairs; without Pyotr, he feels even more unmoored, bobbing around in a storm-tossed sea. He doesn’t belong here; the gilded opulence of the house makes that clear, the intricately-plastered ceilings, the vibrant carpet underfoot. 

He isn’t even good enough to walk in Leoniy Zaytsev’s shadow, let alone sleep under the same roof. If the poverty of his memory wasn’t proof enough of that, the fangs that nudge at his lips are, the bubbling animal instinct in his chest.

“So,” says Leoniy, as they walk through a series of opulent doors, a series of even more opulent rooms. “You’re from the Volga region?”

“I, I guess.” Just like Pyotr’s story, the word falls flat, shattering against the blankness of Sonya’s mind. 

Leoniy laughs, soft and uncomfortable. 

“Is it bad there?”

“Um—” Pyotr had told him on the train, there was a famine. Sonya guesses that does make it bad, though the yawning chasm of his memory stretches out across the concept. Bad means a flash of his brother’s face, a glimpse of terror. Bad means watching his mother kill a deformed calf. Bad is the way their names slip through his fingers. “Maybe.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Sonya swallows, shame heating his cheeks. “I don’t, don’t remember.”

“Oh.” Leoniy pauses at another door, giving Sonya a strange look he could almost call pity. “Well, I’m sure you’ll make some more memories here.”

Opening the door, he reveals a room almost as big as the cabin of Sonya’s past. There the similarities end; he can’t help but gasp a little at the sight. The walls are a dreamlike cream, to match the bedding — the richest bedding he’s ever seen, pillows plump as clouds against a dark headboard. There’s a wardrobe, too, and a large window, spilling the summer in. 

This can’t be his room; he doesn’t deserve the inviting bed, the gauzy curtains buffeted by what little breeze there is. A stable would suit him better. Or a kennel.

“Are you alright?” Leoniy asks, snapping Sonya out of the haze he hadn’t even realised he’d fallen into.

“Yes, Leoniy Petrovich,” Sonya says, keeping his gaze fixed to the floor. Trying to forget how warm Leoniy’s hand had felt when he shook it. 

“Just Leosha, please.” He can hear the smile in Leoniy’s voice, patient and a little sad. It makes him want to look up. It makes him want to hug him, to cry against his chest, to tell him how very far he is from home. 

“Sorry, Leosha,” he murmurs, doing none of those things. Just standing there, staring at a carpet he isn’t worthy of standing on.

“It’s alright. There’s no point in formality when we’re living under the same roof, is there?”

Sonya shakes his head, gaze drifting to Leoniy’s boots. They’re brown leather, only marginally lighter than the receiving room floor. 

“Well, I suppose I’d best be getting on. There’s probably a troika waiting for me.” Those boots move past Sonya, Leoniy’s breath tugging at his ear for a moment.

Turning to watch him go, Sonya’s eyes linger on the back of Leoniy’s head. The tilt of his shoulders, proud and free.

Halfway down the corridor, he turns around, and their eyes meet.

“Actually — if you ever need something — really, something you can’t ask of my father — keep following this corridor until you find a door with a pressed bouquet of flowers on it, and knock. I’ll do what I can.”

Sonya nods, numbly. Drops his gaze, settling on a mole just below Leoniy’s left eye. Even when he turns and heads back down the stairs, Sonya’s gaze still lingers there, as his heartbeat hammers in his ears. 

He turns back to the room, walking inside like a visitor to another world. Even sitting on the bed feels like a transgression.