Anastas's lips slid lower, burning the sensitive skin of his neck with hot kisses. His ragged breathing scorched, stripping away the last remnants of reason. Thomas, utterly drowning in this whirlpool of intoxicating sensations, let out a quiet, almost pitiful moan. He clung to his shoulders, his fingers convulsively crumpling the fabric of his frock coat, seeking in it his only support and salvation from the storm that was sweeping away all his years of fears.
"Stas..." slipped from his lips sweetly, with tenderness.
Anastas instantly froze; the veil he had desperately forced upon himself, in which he had tried to find answers, tore to shreds. The illusion shattered. He abruptly pulled away and, planting his hands against the youth's chest, pushed him away again, hastily taking a step back.
Thomas threw his eyes open in fright. The air caught in his lungs. He looked at the retreating Anastas in mute horror, frantically trying to understand what he had done wrong, why he had once again broken off the kiss in such a cruel manner.
"I can't do this," Anastas's voice sounded broken and bitter. "You... you are not Athit."
Hearing this name, something inside Thomas irrevocably snapped. His heart, which a second ago had been beating so desperately and joyfully, stopped and shattered into pieces. He felt a way he had never felt in his life. It was a mixture of the deepest humiliation, confusion, and anger at himself.
Anger for allowing himself to believe. For daring to think that Anastas was capable of loving him. For giving himself over to those hands so willingly, so pitifully and spinelessly, baring his soul before him. But it turned out Anastas was merely trying to find another person in him, trying to resurrect a ghost from his incomprehensible past by using Thomas.
The eyes of that woman and her ruthless verdict surfaced in the youth's memory: You will not be happy. It is not yours. Indeed. She had been right.
"You're just... mocking me," Thomas whispered bitterly.
He spun around sharply and practically ran out of the room, slamming the door.
Thomas burst out into the street, greedily gasping for air as if he had been suffocating all this time. The night coolness immediately enveloped him. This sharp contrast after the stuffy, tension-filled room had a sobering effect on him, but it did not ease his condition. On the contrary, left alone with his thoughts, he felt so crushed that he could barely stand. A black void yawned in his chest, filled to the brim with pain and bitterness.
He desperately wanted to get drunk. To drown this unbearable feeling in the strongest ale, to lose himself in a heavy, cloudy sleep, just so he wouldn't have to think or remember this terrible evening. But, thrusting his hands into his pockets, Thomas realized he didn't have a penny even for a mug of booze, let alone to pay for a night's lodging elsewhere. All the money was left back there.
Desiring only to get as far away from the ill-fated tavern as possible, Thomas wandered through the alleys. His feet led him on their own to the spacious city square. He sank heavily onto a cold wooden bench in the shadow of the stone town hall.
The time was long past midnight. The city slept, and Thomas still sat there, hunched over and hiding his face in his cold hands. He tried with all his might to force himself not to think about what had happened, but his body treacherously remembered everything. The skin on his lips, cheekbones, and neck still burned. He fiercely rubbed his neck with his sleeve, trying to wipe the memory of those kisses off himself. And the harder he tried to wipe them away, the louder Anastas's disappointment-filled words rang in his head: You are not Athit.
"Tommy?" a familiar, surprised voice suddenly sounded.
Thomas flinched. The youth slowly raised his head.
A familiar tall figure stepped out of the shadows.
"Eist," Thomas exhaled quietly, looking at the mercenary with devastated eyes darkened by pain.
Eist, as always, radiated a lightness that Thomas had sorely lacked in recent months. The mercenary stepped out of the darkness, and a familiar smile played on his lips.
"Is it really you?" Eist leaned in, bringing his face almost flush to see him better through the night gloom. "What a meeting!"
But his cheerful tone broke off mid-sentence. In the moonlight, Eist saw the pale face, the unnaturally reddened skin on his neck, and the pain in the amber eyes.
All casualness instantly vanished; he became alert.
"Hey, is everything okay?" the mercenary's voice turned serious.
He took another step forward and rested his hand on Thomas's shoulder.
"Yeah, I'm fine," Thomas tried to smile. He squeezed a weak smile out of himself, trying his hardest to give his voice a normal tone.
Eist sat down on the cold wooden bench next to the youth. They sat in silence for a while. Eist didn't rush him, giving Thomas a chance to gather his scattering thoughts at least a little and calm his trembling.
"So why are you sitting out here so late?" Eist finally asked quietly, looking straight ahead at the empty, cobblestone-paved square.
Thomas lowered his head. Hiding anything, pretending, or inventing ridiculous excuses was completely useless, and he was too exhausted for that.
"Stas and I just had a fight," the youth replied. The phrase sounded mundane, but behind it hid a whole abyss of unspoken despair.
"I see," Eist drawled thoughtfully.
He recalled Anastas's state from their recent encounters.
"Come on, you'll spend the night at my place," the mercenary said calmly, without unnecessary questions. "I rented a room not far from here, just a couple of blocks away."
"No, it's fine," Thomas shook his head, instinctively shrinking. He didn't want to be a burden, didn't want anyone's pity, not even from Eist. "I'll sit here."
"Don't be stubborn," he countered, brooking no objections. "We're not strangers, after all."
Eist didn't wait for any more excuses. He resolutely rose from the bench and, without letting go of Thomas's shoulder, pulled him along, forcing him to his feet, and led him away.
The room Eist had rented turned out to be small. The mercenary didn't bother creating much light, limiting himself to a couple of candles on the table.
He sat Thomas on the edge of the bed, pulled the damp cloak off him, and threw his own dry plaid over the youth's chilled shoulders. Thomas submissively accepted his care, still in a state of deep numbness. He sat hunched over, staring at a single spot on the plank floor, and occasionally taking a shaky breath, as if he lacked air.
Eist silently walked over to a small cabinet, took out a flask, and poured some tart wine into a clay mug.
"Drink," the mercenary squatted down next to him so their faces were on the same level, and placed the mug into the youth's cold fingers.
Thomas took a sip. The wine burned his throat and brought a little warmth. He looked up at Eist. In the dim candlelight, the mercenary's face seemed calm and focused.
"You don't have to tell me what happened," Eist said quietly, intently studying the youth's pale face, his reddened cheekbones, and the sickly shadow in his amber eyes. "But if you want to talk—I'm listening."
Thomas let out a bitter, broken chuckle.
"I have nothing to tell," the youth's voice trembled. "I just... turned out to be merely a shadow. They want to see a completely different person in me. It turns out that on my own, I am nothing. Just an empty shell. A shadow."
The words burst out along with the accumulated bitterness. Thomas closed his eyes, feeling the ruthless reality bearing down on him again.
Eist remained silent. Then he slowly stood up, took the mug from Thomas's weakened hands, set it on the table, and sat on the bed next to him.
"Throw that nonsense out of your head," Eist replied. "Whoever made you think that is a total asshole. You're too good, Tommy, to be called someone's faded shadow."
He reached out and carefully touched Thomas's cheek. The mercenary's fingers, slightly rough, turned out to be surprisingly warm.
Thomas flinched at the touch, but did not pull away. On the contrary, driven by a deep, corrosive feeling of loneliness and despair, he instinctively leaned into this simple human warmth. He raised his eyes to Eist.
Silence hung between them.
From the very beginning, Eist had never missed a chance to strike up a conversation with him, constantly allowing himself light flirting and meaningful but completely harmless jokes.
Now, devastated and broken by betrayal, it suddenly became vital for Thomas to know the truth.
"Are you saying this as a friend... or just because you want me?"
At such unexpected bluntness, Eist laughed. The usually shy and delicate Thomas was completely uninclined to such straightforward questions, and this sudden, desperate audacity appealed to the mercenary.
The gaze of Eist's gray eyes warmed, and his smile lost the remains of its friendly innocence, becoming open and alluring.
"I am your friend, Tommy," the mercenary replied, not removing his large, warm hand from his cheek. "But that doesn't stop me from wanting you."
Thomas was completely shattered, but in the mercenary's gaze, he found what he needed most right now. Eist saw Thomas in front of him; he liked Thomas himself, not the ghostly image Anastas was so desperately searching for. He wanted only one thing—to forget himself. To erase the memory of Anastas's touches from his skin, to rid himself of the humiliating feeling of his own worthlessness. And he no longer cared.
Eist did not delay. He leaned forward and covered Thomas's lips with his own. His kiss started softly, but soon became deeper and more insistent. The mercenary's hands confidently rested on Thomas's shoulders, slid down his chest, unhurriedly unbuttoning the buttons and freeing him from his clothes.
When Eist's lips touched his neck—exactly where Anastas had kissed a few hours ago—Thomas squeezed his eyes shut, driving away the flashing memory with an effort of will.
It grew hot in the room. Eist pulled Thomas's shirt off and, softly pushing him back onto the bed, hovered over him.
"You're so pretty," the mercenary whispered with relish, his lips brushing his neck.
Thomas closed his eyes, surrendering to what was happening. A quiet, ragged moan escaped his parted lips. His body responded to Eist's caresses with unexpected responsiveness.
Eist was in no hurry; it was obvious he was enjoying every moment.
He only pulled away to shed his own clothes. Through half-lowered eyelashes, Thomas watched him, looking at the broad shoulders, the chest crisscrossed with old scars, and the strong arms.
The bed creaked under the weight of another body. Eist softly caught Thomas's hands, intertwining his fingers with his, and pinned them to the pillow on either side of his face.
"Open your eyes, Tommy," the mercenary asked. "Look at me."
Thomas obeyed. In the dim light of the single candle, Eist's gray eyes seemed completely dark.
Eist leaned down, lightly brushing his lips against his cheekbone.
The youth freed his hands and reached out himself, tightly wrapping his arms around the mercenary's shoulders and pulling him closer.
Eist's lips slid from his cheekbones to his collarbones, leaving a trail of wet, burning kisses behind. His palms gently stroked Thomas's sides, moving down to his lower back, exploring every curve of his body. Under these confident caresses, the youth arched, quietly exhaling Eist's name, as if clutching at him like a lifeline.
Every touch of the mercenary was filled with attention specifically for him. Not for a second did Eist let Thomas feel unwanted. When the caresses became more explicit and demanding, Thomas dug his fingers painfully into the man's shoulders, throwing his head back. All the accumulated bitterness, all the unspoken pain, he was now pouring out in these convulsive gasps, in the way he greedily answered the kisses, allowing Eist to take complete possession of him.