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“What do you want? Oh-h…”
“What time is it now?” Kors asked.
“What?”
“ Do you know what time it is?”
“I have no idea, what?” Nik asked with a yawn.
“Are you asking me?! How would I know if I can’t see anything?” Kors was outraged. Yes, talking to Nik in the morning was a pointless exercise, however, as at almost any other time.
Nik yawned again and didn’t answer.
“Can I peel off the plaster?” Kors asked after a while, realizing that Nik had no intention of continuing the conversation at all.
“Eh? No.”
Kors barely suppressed the uncontrollable wave of anger that swept over him. His fingers clenched nervously into fists.
“No,” repeated Nick, “I’ll do it myself.”
“Then do it…” and Kors, thinking again for a moment, added: “Please.”
“A little bit later. Get away from me, let me sleep! What keeps you up this early?”
“I’m begging you, stop scoffing! Peel it off.”
“I’m not kidding, I want to sleep, do you need it right now?”
“But I can’t see anything!”
“Why do you need to see something now? Sleep, that’s all!”
“I need to step aside to relieve myself!”
“Take a bottle there, Arel left some yesterday…”
“Are you kidding?”
But Nik didn’t answer him anymore.
Continuing to writhe inside with rage, Kors rummaged around near their trestle bed and immediately stumbled upon several empty wine bottles lying there. “Just wonderful!” But what to do, need makes the old wife trot. Standing up and holding a bottle in one hand, with the other hand he pulled his cock out of his pants, and, pressing his head strongly against the neck, he nevertheless managed to relieve himself. As soon as he put the filled bottle aside, he felt Arel’s hands on his belt. He pulled his thin and soft suede pants even lower from his hips and at the same time persistently pulled Kors back onto the trestle bed, forcing him to sit down. Arel didn’t turn him around, releasing his waist, and pressed on his shoulders. Kors lay on his side with his back to the prince. They huddled together like folded spoons in a drawer. Kors felt a hot and hard cock resting against his sacrum. “Well, of course, come on, Arel! Calm your morning boner against me.”
Arel confidently continued to pull off his pants. Kors wasn’t helping him. The prince completely pulled off only one trouser leg from one of his legs. Satisfied with this, he slightly lifted his now bare leg up. Kors felt his fingers, they were wet, Arel drooled on them, they felt and parted his sphincter, then a few pushes followed. Kors just lay there, not fucking back, but he was pleased, he felt somehow comfortable, at home. Arel covered them both with a blanket over their heads and slowly pushed into Kors, hugging him tightly and breathing in his ear. In this warm cocoon of a blanket, they softly fumbled, closely clinging to each other, as in a mink, and Arel, slightly hanging over him, tickled his cheek with his hair. The prince was so strong, firm, young. Kors squeezed his cock with his hand: “A-ah…” Arel increased the pace of his thrusts, and, to Kors’ pleasure, he moaned absolutely sincerely, throwing back the blanket that covered them, tearing their sticky bodies out of the warm, but cramped and airless space into the damp and cold world filled with humid air. Kors pushed back and met him, answering, receiving the thrusts already not so inertly. Arel appreciated this, he accelerated, and his breathing became deeper. They either strayed from the pace set by Arel, starting to move at random, then they again felt for synchronism, lost it and caught it again…
“Should I leave for you?” Without stopping, Arel asked hoarsely, clearly addressing Nik. Kors understood what he meant – he asked him whether he could come inside Kors or pull out in advance, leaving him not so wet for Nik.
“I’m not your cigarette!” Kors shouted indignantly, instantly losing his mood and hearing how the prince sharply pulled out of him, sprinkled next to him, a little on his thigh and probably on a brocade blanket. He “left”, that’s how it was called.
Nik approached them. Hearing the creaking of the floorboards, Kors jerked himself up on the bed and stubbornly repeated:
“I’m not a cigarette to leave me to each other! I. Am. Not. A. Cigarette!”
“Yes?” Nik asked, as if a little surprised, and pulled Kors by the chain dangling from his collar. “And it didn’t bother you before. Even if we… mmm… smoked you alone for two or at the same time.”
“You loved me then, but now you humiliate me!”
“It seems to you,” said Nik, and Kors felt him pulling him by the chain harder, forcing him to lean forward a little, touching his face and ripping off the plaster with a sharp jerk.
“Oh!” Kors covered his eyes with his palms. “You could be more careful! Not only you have eyelashes!”
He looked up, and when he saw Nik, he literally froze in shock. Nik was not wearing a mask, but his face was tightly bandaged with wide strips of black cloth. He wrapped his head in the same way as Kors once wrapped it, with the only difference that Nik left a narrow gap for himself at eye level, and he also cut the fabric at mouth level, just as Kors did. He looked with horror at the shiny ring sticking out from under the strips of fabric under his nose, at the wrapped chin and the top of his head, on which white hair stood up a little between the bandages. Nik wrapped himself around both the way Kors wrapped him and the way Doctor Cassiel had done in Prince Arel’s estate. The side of Nik’s neck was plastered over.
Kors swallowed hard, clutching his throat, unable to utter a word. Nik was almost no different from Valentine now. He looked frankly bad and pathetic. Nik unfastened the chain from Kors’ collar and walked away, returning to his couch of skins, laid right on the floor. He obviously didn’t intend to fuck.
Kors, still silently, looked at him. He saw how hard Nik was making his steps, how he barely hobbled to the skins and sank heavily on them. Realizing that he was no longer going to be used, Kors hurriedly pulled on the trouser leg he had taken off from one leg, pulling up his trousers and buttoning his fly.
“Son… what’s the matter with you?” The way Nik looked was depressing. He seemed to break, in an instant, overnight. Kors was discouraged. And this strange dream!
“Nothing,” Nik said. Head low, he rummaged through his bag, and Kors knew what he was looking for there.
“You look terrible. Why did you bandage your face like that?” he asked.
“Well, how? That’s what you did when you treated me.”
“But I…” Kors stammered, he couldn’t tell him now: “But I didn’t really treat you, and there wasn’t a need for such treatment, I just satisfied my vicious fantasies with you a little.” Does Nik really think this is how he should have been treated? Is he so naive that he didn’t understand that Kors wasn’t healing as much as actually playing with him? Limiting him, reveling in his power. Did Nick take everything in good faith? Did he trust Kors? And so, left alone, he repeated the treatment exactly, not realizing what could be done differently? No-o-o! It can’t be! Well, the Demon can’t be so stupid, Kors won’t believe it anymore! Or could it be so? And Nik doesn’t know how to do it in another way, he only knows what his father showed him? Kors tried to quickly analyze the situation logically. Previously, this always helped him in his professional activities. Everything had to be sorted out.
First, his son is in symbiosis with a demonic essence, and this symbiosis is broken and doesn’t bring any benefit to either one or the other. They can harm each other.
Secondly, his son is a man undeveloped and naive, and really may not understand anything in the treatment.
Thirdly, it was forbidden to the Demon to heal and restore the human body of its owner, this is part of the punishment, and Kors understood this. But the Demon could accept treatment from others if they themselves offered. And Kors offered it to him, and the Demon accepted it.
Now he treats himself. But he repeats the actions of Kors and Cassiel! Can he repeat the way others treated him? Reflect their actions? Not anything more?
And Nik trusted Kors. He believed in his authority and accepted treatment from him. And here is the result of the irresponsible actions of Kors! Now Nik is treating himself wrong!
“Son, let me do everything differently now!” Kors exclaimed ardently, overshadowed by his conclusions. “Let me see what’s wrong with you, and now I’ll do everything right. I will choose the right treatment, and then you yourself will repeat after me, as needed, and not as it is now. Let’s fix it, make everything right.”
“I can handle it myself,” Nik answered indifferently, without even looking at his father, and pulled out his black box from his bag.
“Let me order to call Doctor Cassiel…”
Nik just chuckled and shook his head.
“He won’t come.”
“He will!”
“They are three days ahead from us, people have gone far ahead,” Nik opened the box and took out a small metal cylinder from it. Smooth, it gleamed silver in his black fingers, and Kors knew full well what Nik kept in that case.
“He’ll come!”
“No, he won’t. In the Fort, he still tolerated you, but now he is not at all obliged to go to the camp of the unclean ones on the orders of the disgraced black to treat his lover,” Nik unscrewed the lid of the protective case and carefully took out his syringe from it, attached the needle to it.
Kors clenched his teeth.
“I’ll go after him myself and drag him here by force!”
“Zagpeace will quickly put you in a cage there. You’re not going anywhere, and I don’t need any doctor,” leaning heavily towards the box, Nik slightly rattled the bottles of drugs, sorting through them.
“I…”
Nik raised his voice.
“Calm down!”
Kors froze: “I can’t show that I’m afraid.”
Frustratedly turning away from Nik, he took off his cambric shirt and elegant doublet from the back of the chair – the things that Nik had given him yesterday in exchange for wet clothes. Well, what else was left for him? It was cool in the tent, and there were no other clothes nearby. Having dressed, Kors approached the table. The dirty countertop was covered with spilled wine, there were unwashed plates with the remains of meat, pieces of bread were scattered on the table, the ashtray was full of cigarette butts. Kors took the jug and, bringing it up to his nose, sniffed its contents. Again wine, as in a couple of unfinished bottles, and as in a goblet. Well, what a morning! All was going wrong! Kors slammed his goblet on the table with an already barely concealed irritation.
And Nik, who was concentrating on filling the syringe with the drug from the bottle, involuntarily shuddered and turned to him:
“What are you looking for?”
“Water!”
“What?”
“Just water. I’m thirsty, my throat is dry.”
“Have some wine.”
“I don’t want wine!”
“Vitor, stop your whims.”
“I just want to drink a couple of sips of clean water, do you think this is a whim?”
Nik somehow wearily sighed, but didn’t answer. Kors realized that he was mentally calling his Verniy, because very soon he stumbled into their tent. His cloack was wet as the rain still hadn’t stopped. The dog’s head was covered by a helmet. Ver didn’t take it off, he stopped at the threshold. Kors saw his bestial eyes gleam in the narrow slits of his helmet.
“Ver, Vitor needs water,” Nik said without even looking at his unclean habir. He turned his hand palm up, and seemed to carefully examine the inside of the wrist.
The dog turned to Kors.
“What kind of water do you need, sir? Should I bring a bucket of water for you to wash up?”
“Is there any drinking water?” Kors asked.
“I haven’t gone to the spring yet. But the buckets have stood in the rain all night, they are full. Can you bring rain water? She is clean.
“Pour it into the kettle and boil it properly,” Kors ordered, “I won’t drink raw water from a dirty bucket!”
“Okay, sir,” and Ver turned around and left.
“Though I can wash myself, too,” Kors muttered. His mood didn’t improve, and he thought he could still smell the scent of Arel’s body on his skin. The smell left over from the prince’s strong embrace and his hands. It remained on Kors’ body, on his back, his shoulders, his chest. Everywhere that Arel had touched him. Kors looked at Arel. He was half lying relaxed on the trestle bed, the golden blanket almost sliding down to the floor, exposing his muscular torso, his oblique abdominal muscles, and part of his thighs. The prince had another bottle in his hands, and he took a sip from it.
“Arel, don’t mix up the bottles,” said Kors, “I put that one away, of course…”
“Very funny,” he snorted indifferently, and lazily tousled a long lock of his smooth dark brown hair back out of his face.
“Well, I’m just not sure you’d know the difference, it’s just habit, you know…”
But Arel only smirked indulgently with his lips covered with a thick layer of black dye, glinting in contrast with the white jagged edge of a chipped front tooth. He took another sip from the bottle and gave an audible burp, unresponsive to Kors’ jabs, but still as gorgeous and uncommonly attractive as ever.
Kors shook his head judgingly, but habitually:
“A descendant of royalty, indeed.”
He involuntarily continued to admire Arel, knowing that he didn’t give a damn about the impression he was making on those around him.
Kors glanced at Nik. Strongly tightening his forearm with a black cord, he somehow miraculously found a living vein on his arm and managed to inject himself, injecting the drug just below the elbow bend.
“Nik, maybe you can lie down with Arel, cover yourself with a blanket?” Kors suggested. “It’s cold on the floor, I feel it with my feet.”
“I don’t feel cold. I’m not cold,” Nik said. Kors called him Nik, but he didn’t correct him.
“Just because you don’t feel cold it doesn’t mean you have to lie in a draft.”
“I don't feel cold,” Nik repeated, leaning toward his box again.
So he took care of his slaves in their still human bodies, put them gently on the bed and covered them to keep them warm, but he didn’t care about his own body, just lay down on the floor, on the skins.
“Why don’t you feel the cold? You’re human, but you can lie down in the snow, can’t you?” Kors didn’t understand that.
“Yes, I can. A lot of people are used to the cold. It’s a habit,” Nick said faintly, but he did.
Kors watched him sit on the hide, with his head bandaged and his hair tangled, sticking out from under the bandages. Kors watched as he put something back into the syringe. One of his thick white braids, which Kors had so lovingly braided, was now disheveled and sticking out from under the top layer of shorter hair. It was disheveled, and the tip lay on the dirty floorboards. Playing with Nik and decorating him to his liking, Kors had begun to braid the bottom layer of his hair back in Ore Town. He remembered that this was how Nik’s hair had been braided the first time he was brought in for questioning. The bottom layer of his hair had been braided into four braids, one of which was very short, cut by Arel. Kors had ordered Nik to unbraid his hair then, to show him off at the Spring Ball in all his glory, but later he began to braid him himself, fixing his hair beautifully with bobby pins and, in addition, to keep it tousled longer, he bound it tightly with long thin cords adorned with faceted black and turquoise beads. It was probably wrong, too – beads were usually used by girls to decorate their braids – but Nik looked so much like a girl, so delicate and sweet, and Kors liked it when he was neatly combed and tidy. Later he would braid Nik’s hair in the Fort as well, thus trying to pass the time and do something to occupy himself without taking a restorative or drinking too much. Nik never even looked at what he was braiding into his hair, how he was decorating it. He always sat there obediently, not moving, like a doll, and he never minded Kors, letting him braid his hair, put as many different colored beads in it as he wanted, pin it with different pins. Even now he hadn’t taken them off; his hair had just come undone, unraveled, and was now touching the floor. And Nik didn’t pay any attention to it, didn’t take care of himself, didn’t take care of his beautiful hair.
“What are you wearing?!”
Kors saw that Nik was wearing the clothes of the unclean ones again. His leather trousers were visibly frayed at the knees, on the outer sides there was a wide strip of lacing, it seemed, in three rows, one to the other, and maybe more, with some complex intricacies of the unclean ones. Probably, it could have been beautiful once upon a time… but now it was torn, tied somehow into sloppy knots with protruding dangling ends. Moreover, the trousers were sewn over the edge in some places. Kors saw a rough seam under the knee. On the thigh, a torn flap was roughly fixed by lacing, so that the hole was still visible, and through it and loose lacing, Nik’s tattooed thigh was visible, and also it could be seen that he was again without underwear. A short vest was put on his naked body, barely reaching the waist; it didn’t cover his sunken stomach. In general, it was not clear from what pieces it was sewn, on the shoulders there was the shabby fur of some animal, which apparently died at the dawn of time, it was slightly puffed up. Boots were lying nearby, again boots of the unclean ones, with heavy soles and a blunt cape, adorned with a million iron buckles and clasps to the very top.
Kors couldn’t resist:
“What kind of tattered stuff are you wearing? Did Valentine sleep on it at the doorstep? It’s just that you wouldn’t give such shit to your beloved Verniy.”
“These are my clothes.”
