Suddenly he heard a frightened shriek and the rumbling of iron clanging shut. Hyacinth – that little fool – was trapped in the room he must have entered to satisfy his curiosity.
“Hyacinth!” Vrila ran to the door and pounded violently against the metal. Quickly he attempted to lift it with his bare hands, but it wouldn’t budge since he could hardly squeeze his fingers between the floor and the trapdoor.
“Vrila!” came the boy’s muted reply. Fear could be heard in his raspy voice. “It’s dark.”
“Find a wall and sit down in a corner!”
“It’s suffocating in here… Is there an opening for air to breathe?”
With a tremulous groan, Gavrila put a hand in front of his eyes and, though he needed to keep a clear head, felt panic mounting inside him.
”There’s enough air in there. Sit down and stay calm.”
“Stay calm? How am I supposed to stay calm?” Hyacinth retorted then added in a whisper: “I’m... I’m afraid of tight spaces.”
Such confessions weren’t at all typical of his cheeky husband and caused Vrila serious concern.
“Everything is fine. I’ll get you out of there.” Only how, damn it? Feverishly he searched the door to see if a handle of some kind could be on it, but there was nothing. “Hyacinth, listen to me. You need to feel the whole door and see if you can open it from inside.” He tried with all his might to lend a reassuring undertone to his rough voice.
Inside he heard Hyacinth running his delicate hands across the iron. How could this cursed door have closed? All by itself?
“There’s a heavy chain on the floor. It must have broken off,” came a reply after some time had passed. With those words the lad began to cry. “Please get me out! I’m afraid!” He banged his fists against the door and let out such a heart-wrenching sob that Vrila’s chest hurt.
“It’s going to be fine,” Vrila repeated with conviction. “I’m going to get you out.”
Swiftly he took the stairs to the room above. Along the way he stumbled and broke the fall with his hands. The stone scraped his palms, but he ignored it.
With a sigh of relief he discovered that the ceiling of the room Hyacinth was trapped in consisted of only wood. Surely with enough force he could break a hole in the boards. With enough force and the right tool.
In panic he rushed through the abandoned apartments searching for anything that could break through timber.
“Vrila? Where are you? Please don’t leave me alone!” he heard faintly behind his back as he rummaged through the broken cabinets of strangers.
“I’m not leaving you alone, you foolish thing!”
The next moment he found some items.
With a heavy hammer in his right hand and a long iron spike in his left, he ran back to the boards and dropped to his knees.
“Hyacinth, go to the right side of the door, no, to your left, that is. Sit in the corner and cover your head with your hands.”
“Wh-what are you going to do?” the lad wanted to know but seemed to obey – his voice became muffled, as if he’d put his head between his knees.
“Smash in the ceiling,” Vrila replied impassively.
If he could at least punch a few holes in the cursed floor, he’d supply enough air and light to Hyacinth.
His hands, unused to handling tools other than physician’s instruments, shook, and he had to summon all the self-control he had to suppress his shivering.
*
Shuddering with a fear completely unworthy of a man, Hyacinth cowered in the corner and tightly closed his eyelids. Warm tears ran down his cheeks, and he felt ashamed of himself.
In his head the past struggled against the here and now. It was positively unpleasant to be locked up in this room, but it was, to be precise, not as traumatic as the fearful boy inside told him.
When he was a child, his mother had prefered to shut him away in the broom closet. Because it was barely large enough to turn around in, he was forced to remain standing, his arms wrapped around himself, repeatedly experiencing the sensation of walls closing in on and crushing him.
Regardless of how much he yelled and cried in that hated closet, his parents ignored him, even shoved heavy boxes in front of its door, muffling his pleas for help just to have their peace and quiet. More than once inside the darkness, he’d lost consciousness from the feeling he would suffocate.
He couldn’t remember how many hours he’d endured inside there, but far too many not to have left behind some permanent damage. The onset of panic, which caused cold sweat to break out over his skin and left him gasping rather than breathing, was proof enough. He just wanted to get out, see light again and feel the cold wind in his face.
Above him Vrila was abusing the ceiling and cursing, but in Hyacinth’s mind everything was swirling so fast he couldn’t look up even once or ask whether his husband’s efforts were having an effect.
He had to rely entirely on Vrila who he hoped would keep his word and free him. His body shook again as if he were a wet dog trying to shake off water while his teeth chattered.
All at once came a loud crash, and something fell to the floor beside him. Then just as quickly it was quiet as a grave. Somewhere near him muffled steps sounded. When he looked up, he perceived a faint ray of light through a hole in the ceiling. He felt relief. A moment later it changed into renewed horror as he realised Vrila had fallen to the hard stone floor several feet from him.
He heard himself call his name and rose to his feet to bend over the motionless figure. With careful movements, he patted Vrila’s pale cheeks, but his husband didn’t move.
“No, no,” he whispered when he observed a puddle of blood forming around Vrila’s head and saturating his hair. Hyacinth held his breath to listen whether he were still drawing air into his lungs – he was.
Carefully he inspected the wound on the back of Vrila’s head then removed his own overcoat to place it protectively over his unconscious husband’s chilled body.
Next he tore a sleeve from his threadbare shirt and used it as a bandage for Vrila’s head. The white fabric turned red until no new blood appeared. That was a good sign, wasn’t it? He could only hope.
Tenderly he stroked the dark-brown strands of hair away to examine Vrila’s hard facial lines. They appeared exceptionally relaxed and peaceful.
He wondered what had happened. How had this accident occurred? Had it actually been one? In any event, he had heard steps! Or had he merely imagined them?
Shivering he sat down at the wall. He leaned back against it and pulled Vrila between his bent legs to keep him warm. He held him firmly in his embrace and placed his head on a shoulder. His right hand rested on Vrila’s chest to feel his heart beating.
He closed his eyes and concentrated on the regular thumps against the palm of his hand. While doing so he prayed, imploring God to let Sergei find them soon and free them from this predicament. With all his strength he yelled for him, hoping he would hear should he be nearby.
For Heaven’s sake, let him come quickly…
Now that some light was falling into the dungeon, he could look around. It was totally empty. The floor was concrete – by contrast to the ceiling which had been made of wood. The walls had no windows. What had this odd room been used for? Why had someone built it? It appeared to belong in a factory rather than in an apartment building. His head couldn’t make sense of that, but at the moment he had other worries – mainly the unconsciousness of the man who, to his astonishment, was nestled so fittingly against his own body.
*
As Vrila slowly awakened, something hammered in his skull. How had he managed to fall asleep? He never slept.
Yet, before opening his eyes, it struck him, with increasing bewilderment that he was lying in someone’s arms between someone’s slender legs – contrary to his will he felt protected. Another coat lay over him, increasing his sense of security. He found it puzzling to be able to name and immediately recognise this emotion. Because this definitely had to
be the first time in his life he’d experienced it.
Gentle fingers had buried themselves in his hair, stroking him such that he hardly noticed the delicate chin resting light as a feather on the crown of his head. A faint sigh emanated from him after those caresses.
Without his having exerted himself, his breaths quickened, and he noted the other person’s warmth and strength. Could he be sensing the warmth of his husband? Good Heavens, where in the world was he?
With a murmur he stirred then immediately heard a familiar but unaccustomed soft voice: “You’re awake. I’m so glad.”
With restrained coughs, Vrila pulled away from Hyacinth and sat up beside him against the wall – at a proper distance. Why in hell had the boy held him in his arms? “What…?” His throat was so damn parched he had to make a renewed effort to speak: “What happened?”
“You knocked a hole in the ceiling. Suddenly you fell. I… I don’t know how it could have happened,” Hyacinth replied so quickly he became addled. His cheeks flushed and he roughly raked through his untidy locks before looking away to stare at the floor.
Then Vrila remembered. “I didn’t fall. Someone hit me on the back of my head and pushed me into the hole I’d just bashed into the floor.”
Hyacinth blinked anxiously. “I heard steps after you’d fallen,” he muttered almost silently. “Before that I was too worked up to tell whether anyone else was in the building with us.”
A painful gasp ensued from Vrila’s throat as he could feel his injury under the improvised bandage. At first, he couldn’t figure out what kind of fabric it consisted of, but then realised his husband was sitting in front of him in a shirt missing a sleeve and shivering from the cold. Hurriedly and embarrassed, he handed him his coat. “Put this back on,” he commanded in a gruff voice.
“Thanks, Sir,” Hyacinth whispered and slipped into his outer garment which had become dusty. “How do you feel? Are you all right?”
Vrila nodded curtly. Certainly he was all right – he wasn’t squeamish. “It would seem it doesn’t suit someone that we’re snooping around here.”
Hyacinth said nothing in response, but Vrila sensed his gaze focusing on him. It made him nervous. While slightly coughing, he brushed his hair behind his ears and concentrated on the filthy tips of his shoes.
Without warning, Hyacinth bent over and kissed him on a cheek.
It was a totally unexpected, innocent tenderness, a fleeting caress from exquisitely delicate lips – it drove him half out of his mind. A tingling surged through his body and excited a prickling sensation under his skin. A bewildering heat crept into his face. “What was that about?”
“For saving me,” came a nearly muted reply.
“I haven’t, boy.” Vrila hadn’t earned that kiss. Not in the least. He was a terribly mean-spirited and hideous creature who deserved no tenderness. “We’re still imprisoned.”
Hyacinth shrugged his shoulders. “You bashed in the ceiling for me. Besides, you’re here with me.”
Vrila didn’t know how to respond, thus remained silent. Of course he was with him. How could he leave the lad in the lurch? His heart thumped so loudly he feared Hyacinth could hear it. Something within him wanted to caress his cheek, feel this kiss on his fingertips, but he left it well-enough alone.
“Do you think it was Genwood’s murderer who overpowered you?” his husband finally asked in the stillness.
“I haven’t the slightest idea. Could be anyone. In Elwood you never know whom or what you might have to deal with.”
Hyacinth changed position, straightened and cleared his throat. It appeared he wanted to say something but at the last second lost his courage.
“What is it? Tell me,” Vrila demanded, his forehead creased.
“You said, I’m your property. It would only be right if the same were also true the other way around.” The young man met his gaze and revealed an uninterpretable expression. The muscles around his mouth seemed tense.
“I don’t know how that could not be out of the question,” Vrila whispered and feared that he sounded too gentle.
Hyacinth scrutinized him in confusion. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Vrila took in an anxious breath, not at all inhibiting his excitability and not dispelling his nervousness. “That means to say I…”
At that moment he was interrupted by a violent pounding on the trapdoor separating them from the outside. “Gavrii, Hyacinth! Are you in there? What the hell has happened?” It was Perkovic.
While Hyacinth looked almost imploringly at him, obviously hoping he would complete his sentence, Vrila could only sigh inwardly. Perkovic had come at the right time – before he could say something stupid.
“The chain to the trapdoor broke off,” he yelled and stood up with such a jerk that he became dizzy. “I had to tear up the floorboards upstairs. Find a rope and get us out of here!”
“Aye, aye, Sir,” the fellow replied with an audible grin in his voice.
In the end it would be Sergei who freed Hyacinth from that misery. Vrila hoped the lad didn’t intend to also kiss Perkovic out of gratitude, because he’d be sure to put a halt to that!
“A rope?” Hyacinth shook his head as he suddenly stood beside him. “You’re injured. We have to get the trapdoor open.”
“It’s impossible to move it,” he grumbled with hostility.
How insane it was! The mere thought that Hyacinth might even consider kissing Perkovic, made him livid.
“Vrila, someone struck you hard before you fell onto the stone floor. You’re hardly in any condition to be climbing up a rope.” Hyacinth contradicted him loudly.
Instantly, Sergei’s head appeared in the hole Vrila had made.
“Youngster, the man bears so many war wounds that, if he’d proceeded with your level of caution, he would’ve never let himself take a step until the war was over.”
“War wounds?” Hyacinth enquired and gazed at him curiously.
“Nothing worth mentioning,” Vrila retorted and turned his attention to Sergei. “Have you found a rope?” In response, one was dropped down before his nose.
With a terse nod, he took off the shirtsleeve and stuffed the blood-drenched cloth into his coat pocket. “Up you go,” he told his husband who looked sceptical but finally grabbed the hemp.
Skilfully he climbed up and was pulled out of the hole by Perkovic. Vrila ground his teeth when the two touched one another.
“Calm down now,” he hissed to himself and would have been grateful if someone could only box his ears and bring him back to his senses.
Determined, he took the rope in both hands, feeling pain from the scrapes he’d received earlier. He tried to ignore them with masculine stoicism. That light, burning sensation was nothing in contrast to the suffering which he – as Sergei unnecessarily mentioned – had experienced in the war and before it. His childhood and youth were characterised by pain and shame and self-loathing. Thus, he was practised in suppressing his feelings and emotions.
When he reached the top, Hyacinth grabbed him under the shoulders and helped him up, an act Vrila didn’t welcome. “Let it be! I’m fine,” he snapped and wrestled free to get on his feet then flecked the dust off his overcoat in order to concentrate on something of little interest.
“What in hell happened?” Sergei demanded.
Vrila left it up to his husband to relay the story with quietly spoken words.
“We need to look for whoever knocked you out,” Perkovic muttered and ruffled his dishevelled curls.
“I’d much rather we finally get away from this place!” Vrila simply walked away. He had experienced enough of Elwood and he’d had enough of putting his lad in danger, and he’d had enough of his heart throbbing so wildly when Hyacinth came near him.
The cold wind, which drove snowflakes into his face, had a mitigating effect, and he made the firm resolution not to allow himself any further pangs of emotion. They would only bring him a world of trouble. He’d almost confessed to his husb
and that he would always be loyally devoted to him…
Impatiently he stroked his frigid cheeks and drew crisp air into his lungs.
He would have made himself appear ridiculous with such a statement! Above all, if anyone were to contrast his estranged character and hideous exterior with those of the charming and enchanting young man. And if anyone remembered what had occurred that night eighty-three days ago.
*
What in hell had Vrila meant to suggest when they’d spoken about their… relationship? I don’t know how that could not be out of the question.
What was that supposed to mean?
That he was allowed to own Vrila in the same way was out of the question. That he was allowed to make that claim was out of the question.
When he finally understood, he pursed his lips and, embittered, shut his eyes. It was so discouraging.
Now he experienced shame for the kiss which overtook him when he’d had Vrila so near. His concern had been so excessive that a great sense of relief overcame him when Vrila had regained consciousness. And then there had been the gratitude.
Vrila hadn’t left him high and dry, but had attempted to free him. The final result didn’t count, only the intention, which had been very noble.
He had wanted to thank Vrila and show his affection. Instead, with this unwanted caress he’d provoked anger and humiliation against himself. His behavior had been horribly embarrassing…
“What kind of war wounds?” he asked Sergei with inclined head so as not to draw his husband’s attention to their conversation.
However, Vrila not only had the nose of a predatory bird, but the ears of an eagle as well. “Nothing worth mentioning. Stop getting mixed up in matters that don’t concern you.”
Sergei let himself fall back a few paces, and Hyacinth did the same so they could talk.
“I don’t know a whole lot about it. I wasn’t there. But I do know he has quite a few scars.”
How could that happen? Gavrila had been a doctor, not a soldier. Pensively he looked at his husband’s imposing back. The thought of his body mottled with injuries, reminding him of past traumatic events, made Hyacinth uncomfortable – made him unhappy.
A Hyacinth for His Hideousness Page 13
