Free The Flesh Cartel - Episode #7: Homecoming by Rachel Haimowitz, Heidi Belleau Page B

or perhaps the naked truth of Nikolai’s words. Clearly terrified, yet he gave no answer to the accusation, just shook his head slowly as if to himself. Nikolai began a silent ten-count; if the boy took longer than that to resolve the battle in his head, Nikolai would put violent end to it himself.
    Eight seconds later, Douglas finally choked out, “I’m scared, sir. I—I’m so, so scared.”
    Nikolai nearly struck the boy anyway, tired of all that whining that unbroken slaves felt so entitled to. But then Douglas added, “I’m scared I’ll never be happy, sir. Y-you were so good to me today and you’ve been there for me and you’ve never lied to me and I can see how you feel about me, sir, you m-make me feel so special and for a minute there I thought it would all be okay, you know? But then . . .” He crumpled forward, fell prey to his tears, sobbing and hiccupping too hard to speak, though it seemed he was trying. Nikolai tucked Douglas’s face to his chest, rubbed soothing circles on the boy’s back, and waited with much more patience than he’d felt a moment ago. Douglas wasn’t complaining after all; he was baring the wounds of his soul. These things took time. Nikolai understood.
    “And then?” he prompted gently when Douglas’s sobbing eased.
    Douglas disengaged from Nikolai’s arms and met his gaze, eyes swollen and streaming and shining with fear. “A-and then it wasn’t okay and I . . . I’m scared I’ll never . . .” He broke eye contact and mumbled into his lap, “I’ll never l-love you the way I want to.”
    The way I want to.
    Nikolai gathered him up into his arms again and kissed his face, gentle, sweet kisses as he laid them down together in bed, Douglas cradled shivering and sniffling like a child against Nikolai’s shirt. “Shhh,” Nikolai murmured. “You will, Douglas. I promise you will. We don’t learn to love overnight. But soon—you’ll see. Soon.”
    Douglas shoved away—Nikolai was so shocked by the sudden vehemence that he let go—and shouted, “You keep saying that! You keep—” He sat up and tore a hand through his hair, looking vaguely horrified by what was spilling from his mouth but too angry to care. Nikolai couldn’t decide if the fury was a step forward or a step backward from the hopeless despair it had followed. “You keep saying be patient, wait, it’ll happen soon, but it’s not . . .” Both hands now, shoving the hair from his face, clenching at the crown of his head. He squeezed his eyes shut, sending tears down his cheeks; he did not, Nikolai noted, move out of arm’s reach. “It’s not working ! How long am I supposed to just . . . to trust you? To kid myself? I can’t! I can’t . . .”
    Nikolai sat too and took hold of Dougie’s forearms, tugging gently until the boy stopped trying to rip his hair from his scalp and allowed Nikolai to hold his hands. He wouldn’t meet Nikolai’s eyes, but clearly now was not the time to force the issue. To force any issue but the matter of trust, which could not be had by force in any case. “Listen to me, Douglas.” The boy sniffled, breath hitching, and Nikolai felt his attention upon him. “I know how this seems to you. How it feels like we’ve made no progress. And I’m sorry I can’t push things along any faster, but this is delicate work, you know that—you of all people know that.”
    The boy sniffled again, nodded, gaze still cast to his lap. A tear dripped from his chin and splashed onto his knee.
    “But look at us. Look at where we are. At where you are. Expressing your fears not with anger toward the goal but with anger toward failure to reach it. Do you see how momentous that truly is? How far that means you’ve come?”
    Another sniffle, but accompanied this time by an upward glance, a momentary locking of gazes. The hesitant beginnings of understanding bloomed in those tear-stained eyes. Nikolai resisted the urge to fill the silence, and instead simply let the boy process,