Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/12705585.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Rape/Non-Con, Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Yuri!!!_on_Ice_(Anime)
  Relationship:
      Victor_Nikiforov/Yuri_Plisetsky
  Character:
      Yuri_Plisetsky, Victor_Nikiforov
  Additional Tags:
      Alternate_Universe_-_Historical, Alternate_Universe_-_Royalty, Arranged
      Marriage, Intersex_Yuri_Plisetsky, Ritual_Public_Sex, Virginity_Kink,
      Feminization, Questionable_Liturgical_Choices, Excessive_Description_of
      Textiles, Medical_Examination, Impregnation, Tea, Menstruation, Waltzing,
      Etiquette_lessons, Sewn_Shut
  Stats:
      Published: 2017-11-12 Updated: 2018-03-18 Chapters: 17/? Words: 46232
****** With Your Heartbeat Next to Mine ******
by Nomanono, toasterstrudels
Summary
     From birth, Yuri was betrothed to Rossiyskaya's heir, destined to
     bear Victor Ilyich a successor.
Notes
     toasterstrudels wrote; Nomanono outlined and edited.
     This fic was lightly inspired by the premise and one scene in Nesting
     Doll that toasterstrudels summarized in chat for Nomanono, but the
     ritual sex got really out of control.
  This work was inspired by
      Nesting_Doll by DomesticProwess, potya
***** Chapter 1 *****
Yuri doesn't remember the first ceremony, or the second, or the third. He'd
stopped fighting by the time he could remember what was happening and he didn't
start again until he learned what it meant.
The white string.
He can't see it, where it binds him, but he can feel it if he reaches behind
his member. The small slit it closes. Big enough for a royal cock. "Must not be
very big, then," he said to the doctor who finally explained it to him. Nurse
boxed his ears, after, and he was sent to bed without dinner for a week.
But only a week. They have to keep him healthy, of course. Light outdoor
exercise—nothing too strenuous—and three square meals a day. He eats dinner
with Grandfather, who is a clerk for the railroad, and spends the rest of the
time in the company of Nurse and Ksenia, who keeps house. Their house is large
for a railroad clerk. Yuri isn't allowed to play with the other children in the
street, but sometimes high-street boys and girls are brought down low to spend
a long afternoon together in the parlor under the careful scrutiny of adults.
Fewer and fewer of them come the older and more sour Yuri becomes.
Yuri isn't stupid, but there are some things he can't see because they're so
close. Like the white string, sewing him up tight. They have to hold him down
when they replace it, the year he's ten. Two of the imperial guard, one at each
foot, and a third with his hands around Yuri's wrists. The priest lifts the
knife into the light and it glints sharply off the blade. "Do you want to stir
with this so close to you, my son?" he says. "I don't think you do."
Yuri submits, in the end, shameful and red-faced. That's what he was made to
do.
===============================================================================
Yuri meets him once, when he himself is eight. Yuri barely knows who the
Tsesarevich is; he doesn't connect the man in the parlor to the Tsar's
successor heir until afterward. Victor is tall, fair, with a body muscled for
the hunt rather than the settee. He brings a blanket with him, plush and silk-
lined, better-suited to a baby than Yuri, who's already able to write and do
sums.
Under Nurse's supervision, they make stilted small-talk for five minutes before
Yuri wanders away back to his train set. Their guest seems as relevant to
Yuri's constricted life as the moon.
===============================================================================
When Yuri wakes feeling hot and sticky between his thighs, he thinks it's
another wet dream until he reaches down and comes back with a handful of dark
blood. Then he rings the bell for Nurse with all his might—like a child—with a
dread certainty that something is wrong. "Oh," she says when she sees his hand,
pulling up his nightgown, dragging his drawers down his thighs. "Yura, it's
only your blood coming. I'll have to send for the doctor."
"Am I dying?" Yuri says, grabbing at her sleeve before she can pull away. Nurse
has taken care of him since he was a baby; he can barely feel shame at being
seen by her.
Nurse shakes her head. "The opposite," she says. "It means you can hold life."
===============================================================================
The wedding has been planned since Yuri was born, and its preparation is set
into motion immediately. Yuri is already fifteen—so late, the doctor tsks—and
the kingdom needs him to do his duty. The pain is great enough that Yuri can
barely sit in bed with a hot water bottle over his womb, let alone argue.
"He needs snipped," says Nurse. "He's so tight, almost nothing gets out." As if
the puddle in bed this morning were nothing.
The doctor shakes his head. "Nothing I can do. You know that."
Nearly a week goes by before the bleeding lightens and the clothiers of the
imperial court descend in droves. Tailor, cobbler, milliner, and all their
assistants traipse through Yuri's home and a taciturn lady's maid appears at
Nurse's elbow to dress his hair, lace his stays, and button the backs of his
new gowns. Under her care, Yuri almost looks elegant, like the lady he isn't.
Like the Consort he'll be.
===============================================================================
The chemise is long and sheer, fine-woven China silk. They fit him twice for it
even though it's voluminous, tailored only at the shoulder and the wrists. The
mantle goes over it, heavy velvet lined in satin, scattered with jewels and
trimmed with goldwork, the double-headed eagle worked with needle and precious
thread. Unlike the chemise, it's not fashioned new for Yuri; the fabric is old
and smells sweet from cedar storage. The hem skates the tops of his feet and
the train stretches out behind him. It's easy to imagine how it will look,
skimming the carpet as he makes his way to the cathedral altar.
This altar won't be like the one in the chapel where Yuri's been taken to be
sealed each natal day. The imperial guard will be the Tsar's guard, the
presider will be the Patriarch, and a noble audience will crowd the open floor,
standing witness while Yuri and the Tsesarevich are wed and blessed and the
rest of it.
No one says what the rest of it is.
===============================================================================
"What an innocent," says the tailor's assistant at the final fitting. She's
talking to the tailor, not to Yuri; everyone talks around him, as if he's an
object or a child. "Look at those rosy cheeks."
The tailor adjusts the fall of the fabric at Yuri's elbow. "He's a little kept
dove."
"I'm not a bird." Yuri scowls.
"No dove, anyway," says Nurse. "Ah, but you look fine, don't you?"
It's surprising to see Nurse standing in the doorway; for as long as Yuri can
recall, she's been at his elbow, nudging him to stand up straight, to clean his
plate, to put away his toys. Yet as the parade of artisans through the house
speeds up, she recedes into the background. Yuri's maid has started bringing in
breakfast; she dresses him in the morning and undresses him at night. Yuri
can't help but catch Nurse's eye. She gives him a half-smile before she turns
to leave.
===============================================================================
Grandfather eats dinner with Yuri the night before the ceremony, as he always
has and never will again. Not like this, at least—at the oak table that was a
gift to Yuri's parents at their wedding, the kerosene lights turned dim to save
on gas. "He'll be good to you," Grandfather says. "I hear he's kind."
"My husband." The words feel strange in Yuri's mouth.
"Yes," Grandfather says gently.
Something about the soft lines of Grandfather's face in lamplight makes Yuri
ache, the way his womb had as he bled his freedom away onto white sheets. The
illusion of freedom. He's been bound since birth, sewn up tight and promised,
the jewel of his hidden sex as precious as any set in the imperial crown.
===============================================================================
Yuri is woken before dawn by his maid and dressed in a white gown, his hair
left free to flow over his shoulders. "They'll dress you for the ceremony at
the cathedral," she says. "It's been a pleasure to serve you, sir."
"Thank you," Yuri says, as politely as he can, which isn't very.
He wears fur slippers and a heavy wool cloak out of the house. The staff line
up outside: his maid, Ksenia, Nurse, and then Grandfather, who embraces Yuri
for a long moment. They're almost the same height now. He kisses Yuri on the
forehead and says nothing.
The imperial carriage rides smoothly along the cobbled streets. Yuri warms his
feet on the heated brick on the floor and tucks his hands into a fur muff. The
sky is still dark overhead, twinkling with stars, and the low buildings of his
neighborhood begin to give way to the taller ones of the city. Long bridges
span the river, their supports elegantly arched. Yuri has never been this far
into the city before.
The guard meet him at the steps to the cathedral, clad in imperial livery. Yuri
is whisked up the cold stone stairs to the imposing carved doors with barely a
moment's reprieve before they swing out and he's ushered through the passage
into the echoing building beyond. Court servants are bustling through the halls
and the vast central chamber, preparing the space for the ceremony.
"I'll take charge of him," says a tall woman clad in a severe blue. The
Mistress of Robes. She's visited before, clucked over the second fitting and
chided the tailor about Yuri's court gowns. "Come along, Yuri Andreyevich."
For a few more hours, Yuri is nothing other than the grandson of a railroad
clerk; no title, no privileges, no nothing. The rite through which he will be
transformed has yet to occur. He follows the Mistress of Robes past carvings
and tapestries. As he walks, soft slippers soundless on the stone, a
resignation sets in heavier than the velvet mantle that awaits him.
===============================================================================
In the dressing chamber, the Mistress of Robes and her maids undress him,
stripping away gown, stays, and undergarments. Once Yuri is naked, they pull
the whisper-thin chemise over his head, where it hides nothing as it flutters
to the ground. The Mistress of Robes draws the string at his collar and ties it
at his throat. They settle the mantle over his shoulders, draw his hands
through the slender openings at the sides, and fasten it at the collar and the
navel. His feet are left bare. Yuri comes to his bridegroom with nothing but
this: the cloak of his fealty and the promise of his body.
One of the maids dresses his hair, pulling back the locks around Yuri's face so
he cannot hide behind them. Or maybe the style is fashionable; he wouldn't
know. In the hand mirror she holds out to him, he hardly recognizes himself.
Already he has begun the alchemy that will change him from boy to imperial
wife.
The Mistress of Robes takes the mirror in his hand. "You are ready, Yuri
Andreyevich."
Yuri isn't ready at all, but he straightens his spine, thinking of Nurse
chiding him for his posture. The mantle weighs down his shoulders. When the
Mistress of Robes leads Yuri out of the room, an attendant guiding his train,
carpets have been laid to cushion his path. He's numb to luxury, alive only to
the chill draft gusting across his toes. In his absence, the cathedral has
filled with nobles standing and jostling for a view. When Yuri reaches the end
of the aisle, he can see—him.
Victor Ilyich.
The Tsesarevich.
His hair is silver, a gleaming contrast to the gilding of the cathedral from
font to chalice. A deep red mantle, shorter than Yuri's, flows from his
shoulders to the ground. Yuri's been told that the Tsesarevich is handsome and
strong, when he's been told anything at all.
The low rumble of the organ quiets the chatter around him as Yuri steps
forward, his bare feet sinking into the plush red wool. He doesn't know the
tune. Each footfall brings him closer to the altar, to the chancel screen that
separates him from his new, unsutured life. The Tsesarevich resolves from
distant blur into an imposing figure a head taller than Yuri, slender form
half-hidden by the oxblood folds of his mantle. Yuri's belly goes tight.
The Patriarch's voice echoes through the room. "Blessed is everyone that fears
the Lord."
===============================================================================
After the morning's haste, the Sacrament of Marriage seems to go on forever.
There are readings, hymns; commemoration of Mary, ever-virgin Bearer of God,
and reminders of the blessing of Isaac and Rebecca. The blessing of the womb.
"The handmaid of God, Yuri Andreyevich Plisetsky," says the Patriarch, "is
betrothed to the servant of God, Naslednik Tsesarevich Victor Ilyich of
Rossiyskaya Imperiya, in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the
Holy Ghost. The servant of god—" He repeats the pronouncement twice before
placing the rings in their hands.
The ring is warm from the Patriarch's grasp. Yuri meets the Tsesarevich's eyes
nervously as he holds out his right hand and the Tsesarevich slides the circlet
of gold over Yuri's finger. His eyes are cool, his expression unreadable. Yet
he's gentle with Yuri, and doesn't frown when Yuri trembles as he reciprocates,
fumbling the ring onto Victor's hand.
The Patriarch says, "Let us pray to the Lord."
They process to the center of the church for the crowning. These aren't the
imperial crowns, the ones they'll use for Yuri's coronation, yet they're still
ostentatious, studded with diamonds and rubies. The Tsesarevich brushes the
back of his hand against Yuri's as the Patriarch pronounces the blessing.
"Your wife will be like a fruitful vine within your house," he says to them.
"Your children olive shoots around your table." Yuri almost snickers. As if any
imperial residence could be so simple as a house, as if an olive tree could
survive the bitter cold of winter. As if his body could bear anything so sweet
and precious as fruit.
Somehow, the Crowning is even longer than the marriage rite. Yuri's shoulders
are beginning to ache from the weight of the mantle. Finally, the Patriarch
places a crown on the Tsesarevich's head, then upon Yuri's. "O Lord our God,
crown them with glory and honor."
Then he turns to face the sanctuary and walks slowly forward. The Tsesarevich
takes Yuri's hand and Yuri nearly stumbles as he turns to follow them. This is
the part Yuri doesn't know about. Except—he does know. He's done this as long
as he can remember. The Blessing of the Body.
The blessing of the thread that binds him together.
===============================================================================
The lattice separating the sanctuary from the congregation gives the illusion
of privacy for a brief moment, but then the nobles begin to stream in behind
them—nearly as many as can fill the space. The Mistress of Robes is at Yuri's
side, lifting away his crown, as the Tsesarevich leans forward to unfasten the
clasp at Yuri's throat. "I will receive the mantle, your imperial highness,"
she says as the Tsesarevich lowers his hand to the clasp at Yuri's waist.
"My thanks, Lilia," the Tsesarevich says. His fingers are cool as they brush
against Yuri's skin. He lifts the mantle from Yuri's shoulder easily and passes
it to the Mistress of Robes, leaving Yuri exposed beneath the sheer folds of
the chemise. "Now, you," he says to Yuri after a moment. It's the first time
he's addressed Yuri directly.
Yuri unfastens the mantle, held shut by a heavy chain draped over the
Tsesarevich's chest. It's heavier even than his own; Yuri struggles to lift it
from the Tsesarevich's shoulders. The stern-faced Master of Robes takes it from
Yuri with ease. Beneath the mantle, the Tsesarevich is dressed nearly as
informally as Yuri—close-cut trousers of thin cloth and a sheer shirt that
doesn't hide the flush of his chest or the peaks of his nipples. He's hard
beneath the trousers. Ready to do his duty.
Before, Yuri has always had to climb onto the altar himself—or was lifted by
one of the imperial guard, when he was too young to get up there on his own.
The Tsesarevich picks Yuri up as if he weighs nothing, the skirts of Yuri's
chemise swirling around his calves. "I present my bride," the Tsesarevich says
to the Patriarch. "Yuri Andreyevich."
Yuri is laid out on the altar with all due ceremony, the chemise drawn up over
his hips to expose his thighs. The white linens are no cushion; Yuri can feel
the hard stone of the altar cool against his back. The Patriarch is the one to
part Yuri's legs, pushing past the last of his resistance to expose his bound
sex to the crowd. Already the deacon has the athame in his hand, its sharp,
precise blade glittering in the light. Yuri wants to close his eyes, but he can
only stare at the saints that gaze down from the lavishly painted ceiling. At
the face of his bridegroom hovering at the edge of his vision. Watching.
Everyone's watching.
It always hurts, even when the cut is precise. The sting as the thread is drawn
out goes on even longer. Yuri bites his lip as they're removed and the
Tsesarevich takes his hand. He startles and the Patriarch places a hand on his
hip. "See how he has been sealed," the Patriarch says. "Kept sacred and ready
for his Godly duty. In the name of the Lord—"
The only Lord Yuri can think about just now is here, staring at him, moving his
eyes from Yuri's to his inflamed sex. Yuri doesn't want to want him. He barely
knows what he wants. He's not Yuri here—he's a vessel to be filled, in service
to the empire. In service to the Tsesarevich. The Patriarch has turned to him,
now, as the Master of Robes unbuttons the Tsesarevich's pants and draws him out
for the view of the crowd. Yuri turns his head to see the Tsesarevich's cock
laid over another man's hand, blessed and anointed with chrism. The sweet smell
of balsam fills the air.
"You may anoint your bride," the Patriarch says, and the Tsesarevich allows his
fingers to be drizzled with the oil while the excess falls beneath onto a soft
cloth. His fingers are long and calloused. Yuri stares, breathless, as the
Tsesarevich reaches between Yuri's thighs.
The Tsesarevich's knuckles brush the lips of Yuri's sex, where he's bloodied
and swollen, before they work their way inside, one at a time. Yuri's never
been entered before. It hurts. His whole body fights it, hips squirming against
the table, back arching up, and noble hands come forth to pin him down. "Shh,"
the Tsesarevich says. "You don't have to struggle."
Yuri wants to say, it's wrong, it's wrong, but his throat won't give voice to
the words on his lips; his eyes well with tears. Surely it's not wrong to be
taken by his husband. To be bedded. This has been his whole purpose, his entire
life—virtue saved for this moment, for the Tsesarevich, for the gift of the
prized jewel between his legs. Hasn't he wanted to be unsealed, to be granted
release? Yet his muscles tremble, his thighs quake. The Tsesarevich runs a
clean finger over Yuri's cheek and it comes away glistening.
It doesn't matter that the Tsesarevich is gentle, or if he's kind—there is
nothing gentle about the ancient rite being celebrated at the altar, before the
throng of hundreds of princes, barons, and counts. Before the Tsar and
Tsaritsa, who watch from beneath the solemn-faced Christ crucified. Yuri's face
flushes with humiliation as the Mistress of Robes draws the chemise over his
head, as the Tsesarevich climbs onto the altar, between his thighs. They're
both naked before the eyes of God and Empire. There's nothing Yuri can do but
allow himself to be used.
The Tsesarevich's cock is dark with blood, longer and fatter than Yuri's
own—he's made for breeding, not bearing. He angles himself carefully and pushes
slowly between Yuri's thighs, every movement burning, until something inside
Yuri gives and drips slickly down his thighs. The Tsesarevich reaches down and
his fingers come back with a red smear. "Here," he says, holding his hand
aloft. "Testament to the virtue and purity of my wife."
A caller echoes the words to the nobles massed beyond the sanctuary and a
joyous cry goes up in the crowd. Yuri closes his eyes as the Tsesarevich moves
inside him, his hips unsteady, one hand braced by Yuri's cheek. "Shh, my
darling," he says softly—to Yuri. "How well you've done for me already. Just a
little more, now."
Yuri bites his lip and nods, as if he can stand more of it, when he's barely
survived any of this at all. This performance, this sacrifice. He tilts his
thighs apart further to give the Tsesarevich more room to move. Yuri lets out a
silent gasp when the Tsesarevich goes deeper, and all of the sudden it's
faster, the Tsesarevich's chest flushing as he thrusts into Yuri, and then
shuddering as he spends inside. He leans down for a moment, slick chest resting
on Yuri's own, and presses a soft kiss to Yuri's throat. Then the Tsesarevich
raises himself upon his elbows. "It is done," he says. "I've taken my bride.
May the Empire be satisfied with the fruit."
The restraining hands withdraw along with their audience, rejoining those
congregating in the nave. Yuri doesn't realize they're alone but for the Master
and Mistress of Robes until the Tsesarevich is helping him up from the altar.
Blood and seed drip down Yuri's legs. He stares numbly at the Tsesarevich as
the Mistress of Robes wipes between his thighs, wraps him in a robe of dark
fur, and shods his feet in matching slippers. The Tsesarevich is more quickly
dressed; the Master of Robes has already gone to raise the altar cloth before
the crowd.
The Tsesarevich picks Yuri up again, holding Yuri tight to his chest. He nods
to the Mistress of Robes before turning to carry Yuri out before the crowd.
"Behold," says the Patriarch, dipping thumb in chrism before he marks a cross
on each of their heads in turn. "I pronounce you husband and wife, Victor
Ilyich and Yuri Andreyevich."
***** Chapter 2 *****
Yuri is dressed again before the feast. The Mistress of Robes and her ladies
peel him out of his furs and lace him into stays and underskirts before they
button him into a gown the color of his virgin's blood. He steps breathless and
dazed into the cloth-of-gold boots one maid sets out while the Mistress of
Robes fastens his collar of diamonds and pearls. Red lace frames the jewels and
the flat pane of his decolletage, trims the sleeves and the swag of his skirt.
Yuri's hair is pinned up for the first time and adorned with ruby-studded
combs. Then he's wrapped in mink and swept off to a carriage.
The Tsesarevich is in the carriage, chafing his gloved hands against each other
until he looks up and sees Yuri. He must have been waiting some time. "My
wife," he says. "Our feast awaits us." When the footman closes the door, the
Tsesarevich draws a heavy blanket over Yuri's lap. They're opposite each other,
so Yuri can't look away. He closes his eyes instead.
With every movement of the carriage, Yuri can feel it, the void inside of him
that's always been sealed away. He can feel the shape and force of his
yielding, of the Tsesarevich in him, lingering like a ghost or a bruise. The
rite has been completed. Yuri Plisetsky is no more.
Tsarevna Yuri Andreyevich of Rossiyskaya Imperiya is someone else all together.
Yuri rubs his fine kid gloves against the blanket. Maybe everything in this new
life will be so soft, so rich. In exchange for all that is taken from him.
===============================================================================
In the grand hall of the palace, they stand side by side for photo after photo,
holding still to keep the image from blurring. The Tsesarevich smiles while
Yuri stares straight ahead, his mouth a thin line.
The food at the wedding feast is impossibly rich: pheasant with pistachios,
quail with truffle, bass and ham, black caviar, a dozen soups. Yuri's corset is
so tight that he can barely eat. Noblemen approach the table to pay their
respects, to congratulate the Tsesarevich on his conquest. The Tsar and
Tsaritsa give a toast to the union and hundreds raise their crystal glasses.
The carved stem bites into Yuri's fingers when he lifts it in answer. He tries
not to dump the wide-mouthed glass in his lap.
"Have you drunk champagne before?" the Tsesarevich says, fingers grazing over
Yuri's thigh beneath the table. "Roederer makes this just for us."
The champagne is a burst of bright flavor on his tongue that quickly fades to
nothing. Yuri can't tell if he likes it. "Obviously not," he says. "When would
I have?"
Not at dinner with Grandfather, who isn't here. Yuri pushes the pheasant around
on his plate. He's eaten with Grandfather every night he can remember. The
plate is gold-rimmed, painted with the empire's double-headed eagle. He still
feels slick and open between his legs.
===============================================================================
After their plates have been cleared, the Tsesarevich leans close to Yuri and
says, "I'll see you later, my wife."
One of Yuri's new ladies-in-waiting shows him to the Tsesarevich's chambers,
guarded by two formally-garbed doormen who solemnly allow them entry. "The
servants will prepare you for bed," she says. "Good night, Tsarevna." She
curtsies.
The Tsesarevich's chambers are lavishly furnished: a sitting room, a library, a
bedroom, a bath, and then—Yuri's own room, which is as delicately appointed as
a boudoir. Floral paper hangs on the walls and sheer drapes fall from the
bedposts. Two maids are waiting for him, one warming water by the fire and
another standing at attention by the door. They undress Yuri in tandem,
stripping him down to chemise and drawers, which are dotted with blood at the
seam that runs beneath his groin.
One of the maids whisks the offending pair away while the other sponges Yuri's
thighs clean. "The physician will be in to see you soon," she says as she
switches to a dry cloth. "I'll get you a clean chemise."
Yuri's been awake so long, and the room is warm. He lies on the bed and drowses
while one of the maids spirits away his dinner dress along with the soiled
water and linens. Maybe he'll sleep alone tonight. Maybe they'll let him rest.
There's a knock at the far door. The remaining maid springs to her feet. "Dr.
Lermontov?"
The guard outside opens the door and shuts it once the elderly man has entered
the room. He doesn't look like a doctor, or not like the one who's attended
Yuri since he was small. He's old and stooped, suit finely cut and hair styled
in the curls of—long before Yuri was born, anyway. "I must examine the
Tsarevna." He bows toward the bed.
The maid stands at attention by the fire as Dr. Lermontov approaches the bed.
His hair gleams pale and the firelight glints off the tip of his cane. He rests
the cane against the bed. "Your imperial highness," he says, "I must inspect
your organ to see that you've taken no injury. Maid, lift his chemise for me."
Yuri blinks up at the physician. He hasn't been asked a question—he doesn't
know if he should answer. The maid comes to his side, drawing the fine cotton
over his hips until it pools on his chest.
"A light would be good, my dear, thank you," says Dr. Lermontov, handing his
gloves to the maid. "It's very important that we treat any injury before
infection can set in. We wouldn't want that, would we?"
"No?" Yuri says, softly.
The physician doesn't respond. His cool fingertips brush Yuri's thigh, nudging
his legs open. "Where's that lamp?"
"Here, sir," says the maid, and then Yuri has to throw his arm over his face to
shield his eyes.
"Ah, very good. A little lower—there."
Then those cold fingers are moving Yuri's small, soft cock aside, reaching down
to his feminine sex and touching the sore entrance, brushing a finger over the
freshly scabbed skin. Yuri hisses and bites his lip. "No," he says into the
crook of his elbow.
There's no acknowledgement from the physician or the maid. Only careful
probing, the pierced lips of his sex parted and pushed away, and then the firm
pressure of a digit inside. The physician uses no oil, and his touch is not for
pleasure; he palpates the tender, abused flesh inside Yuri until Yuri screams
against his arm. "My, you're tender," the physician says. "You've barely had
anything in you."
It seems to go on for a very long time. Can't the physician tell whether or not
he's bleeding? Whether he's hurt? Whatever that means.
"Well, you're a healthy young man," Dr. Lermontov says at last. "I'd be
surprised if you're not bred by the spring. Couldn't have chosen better
myself."
He pulls away and the maid draws down Yuri's chemise.
===============================================================================
Yuri does sleep, after that, curled up beneath the heavy comforter on the bed.
Not for very long, though. "Your imperial highness," says the maid. "The
Tsesarevich has asked for you. Let me ready you for him."
"I'm tired," Yuri says.
The maid looks at him with dark, steady eyes. Her mouth is firm. "The
Tsesarevich has asked for you."
She takes off his chemise and dresses him in a nightgown of silk so fine that
it catches on the pads of his fingers. Then he's wrapped in a robe nearly as
sheer as the chemise he wore this morning. The maid brushes out Yuri's hair,
wavy from its festive coil, and leaves it long to trail over his shoulders.
"Aren't you a vision," she says, setting the silver-backed brush on top of the
dressing table.
Yuri shrugs. He can't help but think of Nurse, saying, no dove, anyway. "Take
me to him, then."
He knows where the Tsesarevich's room is well enough. There's an adjoining
door, shut for now, that the maid bypasses to take them into the hall. "I'll be
at your service tonight, Tsarevna," she says at the threshold. "Whatever you
may need."
Yuri turns the glass knob cautiously. The tumblers slide with a click and the
door swings open soundlessly at a touch. Where Yuri's room is light, the
Tsesarevich's room is dark—the walls a deep-red beneath the many paintings,
photographs, and the high mirror across from the bed. The Tsesarevich is lying
on top of the bed, spread out over the cover and pillows of jewel-toned
velvets, clad in a black robe and looking like a Greek sculpture. A shiver runs
down Yuri's spine.
"Tsarevna," the Tsesarevich says as though he's trying it out. "Wife. Yuri.
What shall I call you? Yura? Zolotse? You are like gold, you know."
"I don't know," Yuri says. "Don't you decide that?" He walks forward toward the
bed, his slippers clapping against the wood floor for a moment before they're
silenced by the plush carpet. The sense that he's in a dream suffuses him.
"You must call me Vitya, for you are my wife. Vitenka, if you're very pleased.
I shall try to please you." The Tsesarevich's eyes gleam in the lamplight.
Yuri stops at the foot of the bed. "Vitya. I will."
"Let me see you," Vitya says. "They sent photographs every year. I had no idea
you'd turn out so lovely."
Yuri's not lovely. He's not delicate, he's not kind. But he doesn't get to
decide those things for himself anymore. "Thank you," he says stiffly.
"Come here," Vitya says. "Yura."
Vitya takes Yuri by the wrists and pulls Yuri into his lap on the bed, smiling
gaily, as if this is a pleasure instead of obligation, and maybe it is to him.
Yuri allows himself to be pulled. He lets Vitya stretch him out over the bed
and cover him with his body. Vitya is perfectly fashioned, beautiful beneath
his robes, and he takes off Yuri's, too—after he's sucked a bruise high onto
Yuri's neck, one that can't possibly be covered, that commands to be seen. The
peignoir comes off easily, pushed over Yuri's shoulders, but the nightgown must
be unbuttoned at the neck and drawn overhead. Vitya tosses everything to the
floor, careless of the fine fabric.
"Come, under the covers," Vitya says, lifting up the sheets. Yuri's no sooner
beneath them than Vitya is nipping at his neck again, then kissing his cheeks,
finishing with a firm kiss on his lips. He strokes Yuri's cock absently before
he reaches underneath to Yuri's sex and slips the tip of his finger inside.
When Yuri frowns, Vitya kisses Yuri's brow before he pulls away. "Maid?" he
says, raising his voice. "Oil, if you please."
The door swings open and Yuri burrows under the covers, red-faced. "Of course,"
the maid says, her voice muted by the fabric. Footsteps cross the room and
double back to Vitya's side. "Do you require anything else, your imperial
highness?"
"Not for now," Vitya says. "Thank you."
The door shuts, but Yuri stays where he is. The maid is in calling distance.
She must be standing outside—listening. Or is she? She could be here. Watching.
Vitya lifts the sheets and tugs Yuri closer to him. "You're so modest, my
bride."
"Isn't that what you wanted?" Yuri says.
Vitya gazes down with his bright eyes. "This is my duty, as it is yours," he
says after moment, dropping his playful pretense. "How do you wish me to take
you? Gently or roughly? For I must do it."
"Didn't you—earlier?"
"My seed mightn't take, just the once," Vitya says. "Did they tell you
nothing?"
Yuri has been told, time and time again, how lovely he is, and perfect, and
innocent. Wasn't the whole point to keep him ignorant and untouched, ready to
serve like a mindless doll? He says, "How am I supposed to know what I don't
know?"
Vitya cups Yuri's face in his hand. "I'll teach you, Yura."
Yuri turns his face away, towards the pillow. He doesn't want to learn
anything. He's so very tired, and yet his day keeps going on and on. When Vitya
slides a finger into him, slick with oil, he doesn't protest. He lets Vitya
push him onto his back again to enter him, parting the lips of his still aching
sex, freshly abused by the doctor's inspection. It takes everything in him not
to cry out. What is his duty? He didn't choose this. He didn't.
Vitya is gentle, or gentler than before, which just means it goes on
longer—this aching, burning torture. "I'll be careful with you," Vitya whispers
in Yuri's ear as he moves inside. "Every night, I'll—I want to be kind to you."
"It hurts," Yuri says.
"I know," says Vitya, although, how can he?
Vitya wraps his fingers around Yuri's cock as he comes close to his own climax,
stroking Yuri in an unsteady rhythm that falters and stills as he fills Yuri
with his seed. Then he starts again, relentless. Yuri winces, nails digging
into the sheets, and tries to think of anything else until he finally releases
in an aching, forced climax. He can feel Vitya's cock softening inside him as
Vitya's hand drifts over his ribs, petting until Yuri's harsh breathing evens
out.
When Vitya withdraws, his cock slips awkwardly out of Yuri's sex, dragging a
wet path down the seam of Yuri's thighs. He rolls over onto his back and his
breathing slows within a minute. There's nothing to clean with, so Yuri lays on
his back, trying not to let Vitya's leavings seep from him onto the sheets.
***** Chapter 3 *****
Yuri doesn't wake up alone.
Well, he's alone in the bed—naked beneath the fine linens, the heavy duvet—but
another maid is standing at the foot of the bed, neat in her starched uniform.
"Your imperial highness," she says, seemingly unphased. "Your husband wishes to
take breakfast with you in your sitting room when he returns."
"From where?" Yuri says.
The maid frowns slightly. "From his morning ride." She doesn't move.
Yuri is naked, aching between his legs. He's acutely aware of the maid's eyes
on him, her calm, assessing gaze. She can't be much older than he is. Slowly,
he inches toward the edge of the bed, and she comes around and picks up his
discarded peignoir and nightgown from the floor.
"I'm sorry," she says. "Just a moment, I'll get you a fresh one."
There's nothing else in grabbing distance, except for the linens on the bed,
tousled with use.
The maid returns with another peignoir, as fine as the last but of heavy satin,
ruffled and densely embroidered. "I've drawn a bath for you." She holds up the
robe. "If you please."
Cautiously, Yuri swings his wobbly legs over the side of the bed. He's acutely
aware of how he looks, how he smells. Crusted come on his chest, his legs;
blood, too, dried rust between his thighs. He must have bled again when Victor
took him last night. The maid doesn't stare, but she doesn't avert her eyes,
either.
The bath is hot, but not too hot. It soothes the ache in Yuri's muscles, but it
burns between his legs. He closes his eyes and lets the maid scrub him briskly
until her delicate hands slip down to his sex. "What—"
"Do you want to wash yourself?" the maid says, as if it's an unusual request.
"Yes," Yuri says.
Touching himself is almost worse than being touched. His familiar body is
strange, split apart, the string that's held him together his entire life
unraveled. The organ between his legs has been touched by deacon, priest,
physician, and husband, but not by Yuri himself. He fumbles, drawing the cloth
between his legs, gasping at the sting of pressure against the piercings, the
newly-opened passage that lies between them. He can feel the scrutiny of the
maid's gaze on him. Finally he hands back the cloth and she sets it aside, a
fresh one already in hand.
After the maid scrubs his back, she washes his hair and towels it dry as best
she can. It's so long now that it takes hours to fully dry. "How would you like
me to put it up, your imperial highness?" she says when Yuri is clad in a caped
tea gown with frilled lace that hangs over his flat bust. "A simple bun, or I
can braid it—"
"I don't know," Yuri says. "Whatever you want. And stop calling me that. Call
me my name."
This, at last, startles the maid. "What? Yuri Andreyevich?"
Yuri nods.
"All right," the maid says after a moment. "I'm Olga Mikhailovna. I'll braid
your hair, Yuri Andreyevich."
===============================================================================
Vitya is bright-eyed and fully clothed at the breakfast table. Yuri can barely
sit down. "Try this, Yura," Vitya says as another servant sets out their
plates. "We have kvas, sturgeon, poulyada, grushi v zhele..." He lifts a fork
of jellied pear to Yuri's mouth.
"I can feed myself," Yuri says sourly. He eats slowly, mindful of the
constriction around his ribs. The tournure beneath his gown is large enough
that he has to sit on the edge of his chair.
Only as their plates are taken away and they're left to sip strong, smoky tea
does Vitya speak again. "Did you sleep well?"
"I slept," Yuri says.
What else do they have to say to each other besides meaningless pleasantries?
Yuri can't ride—nor would he want to, like this—he's never been on a hunt, and
the only accomplishments that he has to display are the impeccable table
manners drilled into him by Nurse, passable skill at the piano, and untested
aptitude for dancing, drilled into him by a dance instructor. He's at best a
weak student and his favorite occupation is reading travelogues about places
he's never been to and never will. Unless Vitya's explored the mountains of
Persia or seen Tripoli’s towering obelisks, there's nothing Yuri wants to
discuss with him.
"My mother wishes to take tea with you later," Vitya says as he drains his
glass. "We usually dine together in the evening in Father's chambers. Our
family is informal at home."
Funny, how Yuri's never thought of the imperial family as a family—a collection
of portraits, maybe, or ideas. "I eat dinner with my grandfather. I mean, I
did."
Vitya's eyes brighten. "He could visit, if you wish."
The idea of Grandfather seeing him like this—Yuri can't bear it. "Maybe later."
"I want you to feel at home here." Vitya's hand finds Yuri's beneath the table,
and Yuri flinches, fighting the urge to pull away. "This is your home now, my
Yura. You can entertain your friends, bring your family—"
"I don't have any friends," Yuri says. "And I don't have any family. Just
Grandfather."
"We are your family," Vitya says smoothly.
Yuri purses his lips and says nothing.
===============================================================================
Yuri's tea gown must suffice for an imperial audience, because Olga does
nothing but summon him back to his bedroom to drape a strand of pearls around
his throat. "You don't have your ears pierced, Yuri Andreyevich?"
"No," he says.
She eyes him carefully. "I can do it for you now, if you wish."
"No." Yuri straightens his spine. "I don't want you to."
He's not expecting to be obeyed, but Olga nods and turns back to the jewelry
box. "I'll put a comb in your hair, then."
The comb is a spray of flowers with citrine petals anchored by pearls. Yuri
didn't grow up with jewels, with dresses of silk and delicate lace; the ease
with which they conform to his body makes his skin crawl. He avoids the mirror
while Olga pins up a stray lock behind his ear.
"You have an hour before the Tsaritsa will be ready to see you," she says.
"Would you like to see the library? His imperial highness had some books
purchased for you."
Yuri barely glanced in the room last night. "Yes," he says after moment. "Show
me."
The library isn't some fantasia of literature; the tall bookcases are scattered
throughout the room, outshone by a broad hearth and dark velvet-covered
furniture. Yuri scrutinizes the collection. The classics are closest to the
door, their gold leaf untarnished and leather spines uncracked. Only the
furthest bookcase shows signs of actual perusal. Etiquette manuals, old
schoolbooks, and slim volumes of poetry line the shelves, except for one in the
middle, which is full of—
Melville’s travelogues from Polynesia, Darwin’s The Voyage of the Beagle, and
Wallace’s The Malay Archipelago. There’s The Golden Chersonese and the Way
Thither, which Yuri hasn't read yet, and a Russian translation of Tokaidochu
Hizakurige, which was far too costly for his meager allowance. The rest of the
shelves are devoted to maps and guidebooks, a mix of new and old. Yuri unfolds
a yellowed cartograph and studies the ragged edge of the Indian coast. Lines in
different hash styles denote the expedition routes of his favorite explorers:
Shelvocke, Terry, Tavernier and Chardin.
Yuri thumbs the X’s of Chardin’s expedition, tracing it across Persia and into
the Indian subcontinent. He scans the shelf and finds Chardin’s logs, pouring
over familiar passages, now with a map to bind them into place and time.
"Yuri Andreyevich, the Tsaritsa awaits you for tea," Olga says. "Shall I show
you the way?"
Yuri is only a quarter of the way into the first volume, learning the
difference between shirvani and karvari silk. Reluctantly, he leaves the book
on the table beside the sofa. "Yes."
The Tsaritsa's rooms are all the way at the end of the long hall that spans the
imperial family's private quarters. Two guards carefully survey them before
they stand back and open the door for Yuri. "You may enter," the tallest says.
Olga bows her head and turns back. Yuri steps forward.
===============================================================================
The Tsaritsa's sitting room faces south, so it's warm with the afternoon sun,
scattered with delicate furnishings and artwork in soft pastel tones. A large
family portrait hangs over the fireplace in the sitting room: the Tsar standing
tall next to the Tsaritsa with their children before them, Vitya with his
silver hair cascading over his shoulders over his military uniform and the
Tsarevna's red locks braided into a neat crown. They make a pretty picture
together.
In the flesh, the Tsaritsa is plumper than in his portrait, warm bronze mixed
with grey in his elaborately styled coiffure. He's dressed as casually as Yuri,
which is to say that the soft folds of his dress flutter loosely around his
form, lace-edged but only lightly embroidered on the sleeves and chest. "Hello,
daughter," he says. "It's nice to meet you at last. You're as sharp-eyed as
your grandfather wrote, Yuri Andreyevich."
"You know my grandfather?" Yuri says. The Tsaritsa stares at him until Yuri
remembers himself and curtsies. "Excuse me, your majesty. Thank you for
inviting me to tea."
The Tsaritsa smiles. "There we are. We're usually informal here, as I hope my
Vitya has told you. You may call me Vanya, and I will call you Yura."
One of Vanya's maids serves them hot tea fresh from the samovar while the other
sets out cookies, slices of cake, and all manner of jams. Yuri watches as Vanya
selects a dark cherry jam, then puts a heaping spoonful into his own cup. The
jam is more bitter than sweet in the strong tea.
"Thank you, Vanya," Yuri says carefully.
Vanya smiles. He's as smooth-cheeked as Yuri, but more handsome than beautiful;
no frills could conceal his primary sex. "You learn quickly. That will serve
you well here." Despite three decades in Saint Petersburg, his German accent is
still heavy.
Yuri lets the cup warm his hands. He doesn't know what to say to that.
"I picked you as my son's bride," Vanya continues. "Don't think I have any
illusions about you. You're smart, I understand, and capable enough in the ways
that matter. "
"The way that matters?" Yuri says, surprising himself.
Vanya laughs. "That, too." Abruptly, he sobers. "Give the crown an heir and a
spare, and don't ever expect my son to give you pleasure. You may find that in
other places."
Yuri frowns, thinking about Vitya's words last night, about the way he'd
touched Yuri after his own completion. He's pulled from his thoughts by
thudding steps and then the abrupt scrape of paws at the far door.
"Anna," Vanya says sternly. "What have I told you?"
The door bursts open to reveal a large poodle with a flustered maid in hot
pursuit. "I'm so sorry, your majesty!" she says as the dog eludes her. "He
just—"
Yuri can't help himself: he laughs. The dog saunters over toward Yuri casually,
as if the chase scene to which Yuri has just been witness had not passed at
all, and sits directly in front of the table. His chin lands with a soft thud
on the wood and his eyes dart back and forth between Yuri and the pile of tea
cookies.
Vanya sighs. "Well, you've met Makkachin. Spoiled thing, isn't he? I'm keeping
him for Vitya while you settle in."
"He's Vitya's?" Yuri holds out his hand for Makkachin to sniff. He’s
steadfastly ignored in favor of the tea cookies.
"And your trouble now, too."
Yuri takes a cookie from the plate and it's gone from his hand in a moment,
crunched in Makkachin's teeth. He scratches cautiously behind Makkachin's ears
and is rewarded by a heartfelt pant.
The rest of tea passes with light conversation about the palace, Yuri's
wardrobe, and the upcoming social season. Light conversation for Vanya, anyway.
Yuri's head is swimming by the time he rises from the tea table.
"Let me give you one more word of advice, daughter, " Vanya says as he stands
as well. "You want something with a higher collar for dinner. Some powder,
perhaps. For your neck."
===============================================================================
Someone has already set out a dress for Yuri—iridescent silk that shimmers
between dark grey and deep blue, a delicate ruffle around the throat—which he
bypasses for the wardrobe, which is an entire small room off the bedroom. There
are at least two dozen more dresses in here than he remembers being fitted for,
plus a row of skirts, racks of shoes, and heavy armoires full of shirts, shawls
and underthings. "Have I no trousers?" he calls out into the bedroom.
Olga appears in the doorway. "No," she says steadily. "May I help you?"
"I want a different dress, that's all. I—" Involuntarily, Yuri's hand comes up
to cover his throat.
Olga nods. "I will find something, Yuri Andreyevich."
So Yuri finds himself wearing a high-collared brown velvet dress, heavy with
silk needlework and pearls, a white feather and pearl pin tucked into his hair.
Altogether, the impression is less that of a Grand Duchess than a common
grouse, but no one can accuse Yuri of exposing himself to ridicule. Literally,
at least.
"I told you, family dinner isn't formal," Vitya says when they meet in the
sitting room. "You needn't dress so…"
"I don't care," Yuri says through clenched teeth.
Dinner itself is uneventful. Vitya's sister Lyudmila ("Mila, please")
entertains their mother with gossip about a dozen people Yuri's never heard of
and the Tsar ("You may call me Ilya Aleksandrovich") alternates between asking
Vitya detailed questions about the situation in the Caucasus and giving Yuri
forbidding smiles over the parade of dishes on the table. Vitya smiles, too,
but he doesn't seem to know where to look; his eyes dart between his parents
and his sister and Yuri as he presses his knee against Yuri's beneath the
table.
Yuri doesn't eat very much.
===============================================================================
The sight of yet another delicate nightgown wakes Yuri up instead of soothing
him. His heart thuds as Olga unwraps him from his daytime layers and sponges
him clean before she drops the cotton nightgown over his head and begins to
button up the front. This one has a square neckline, edged with lace, that
leaves the mark on his throat fully exposed.
"How was your first day in the palace, Yuri Andreyevich?" she asks as she frees
his hair from its style and begins to brush it out.
He swallows. "You didn't cover the mark."
Olga pauses for a moment. "The Tsesarevich asked me not to."
"Is he your master?" Yuri says. "Or am I?"
"The Tsesarevich will be both of our masters someday, God willing," Olga says.
Her hands are steady. "If you wish me to make sure you are..."
"Presentable," Yuri supplies.
Olga nods. "I will do my best, Yuri Andreyevich."
Yuri spends a long hour lying in his bed, eyes closed, not sleeping. His
heartbeat echoes in his ears. Vitya said every night. It's too much to hope
that he might be left alone.
He's just started to doze off before a knock sounds on his door. Before Yuri
can respond, the door swings open to reveal the same maid as last night. Is she
Vitya's maid? She's older than Olga, wrinkled around the eyes. "The Tsesarevich
has asked for you, your imperial highness."
"Fine," Yuri says.
He's wrapped in a peignoir—pale pink, this time, instead of virginal white—and
led through the hall to Vitya's room. "I am at your service tonight, Tsarevna,"
the maid says as she opens the door. "Call if you require anything."
And there's Vitya, again, stripped of the sober navy suit he wore at dinner,
wrapped in a paisley robe. He's reading from a slender volume which he marks
with a ribbon and sets aside before he lifts his head, silver hair brushing his
cheekbones. "How radiant you are," he says. "Yura."
Slowly, Yuri walks toward the bed. He can feel his sex between his legs, still
aching from last night. "You asked my maid to leave—" He gestures to his neck.
"This uncovered."
"Well, yes." Vitya's smile slips for a moment. "You're my bride. How else would
anyone know?"
Yuri stares at him. "Is that a joke?"
"Maybe I just like seeing my mark on you," says Vitya, as if the Nikiforov
crest weren't sunk deeper into Yuri than a brand into the skin.
The oil is already on the bedside table, uncapped and waiting. Yuri removes his
peignoir himself and drapes it over the back of a chair, where the tassels
brush the floor and the pale beading glitters in the lamplight. He hesitates
with his hand at the neck of the nightgown.
"Darling, let me," says Vitya. "I want to undress you."
So Yuri lets Vitya work loose each button and open the nightgown to the waist.
Vitya gasps when he slides his hand over Yuri's chest, as if he's been the one
touched and not Yuri. It's not as if Yuri's so special. The Tsesarevich can
have anyone he wants; it's just that Yuri's the only one he can get an heir on.
"You don't have to be so shy," Vitya says, pressing a kiss to Yuri's cheek.
"Not with me, or with—"
"Don't talk about other people right now." Yuri says, shuddering. "Stop."
Vitya doesn't stop, but he does stop talking about other people, or at all.
He's quiet as he pushes Yuri's nightgown over his hips, quieter still as he
pulls Yuri into bed with him. He works Yuri open with the oil with agonizing
patience and enters Yuri with a single punched sigh. "Yura," he says at last.
"How am I not supposed to say how incredible you feel? How precious you are?"
Yuri can't say anything to that. Even with oil, Vitya's cock chafes the tender
walls inside him. He can already see the pattern of his days until Vitya puts a
child in him: laced and restrained, paraded around for the family, spoiled with
delicacies, and used past bearing. "Just do it. What I'm here to do. Do it."
"You deserve more, my sweet Yura," Vitya says. "Darling—" Somehow his own
endearments set Vitya off, leave him panting against Yuri's chest as he closes
his fist around Yuri's cock.
The sensation pierces through Yuri's fog like a needle through skin. Yuri gasps
this time and can't catch his breath; he doesn't come for long minutes, and
when he does, release leaves him exhausted and trembling. He turns his head and
closes his eyes.
***** Chapter 4 *****
Yuri is soundly asleep when something jumps on him, slurping loudly in his ear,
and prods all over the tenderest places on his body. "Stop!" he says sleepily,
curling into himself and pulling a pillow over his head. "Stop it!"
He's surprised when his command is obeyed.
After a dark minute of the soul warring between unconsciousness, dread, and
curiosity, Yuri lifts the pillow and shifts in bed to see what that something
is. He immediately gets a wet slop to the face for his troubles. Yuri fists his
hands in curly fur and—oh, it's the dog.
Yuri's never had a dog, but he knows what dogs are like. Sort of. From reading.
"Good… boy?" he hazards. "Stay?"
The dog stays, although his expression grows mournful. What a strange face on
such a ridiculous-looking dog. He's huge and fluffy, stretched out against the
length of Yuri's body. His tail wags with an enthusiasm born solely from Yuri’s
gaze.
"Makka?" Yuri tries, and at that the dog bounds up with a yip and paws joyfully
at him. "No, no, quiet!"
The door to Vitya's bedroom opens and admits not Olga but Vitya himself,
followed by a man who must be Vitya's valet. "Ah, there he is. Makkachin, come!
Don't trouble our poor Yura. He has an hour to rest yet."
"Shall I take the beast out ahead of you, Victor Ilyich?" The valet's eyes dart
toward Yuri, but he says nothing further.
"Are you a beast, Makka?" Vitya says to his dog. "Be an angel for Sergey. I
know you can."
Sergey the valet leads Makkachin from the room, and then they're alone
together: Yuri and Vitya. Vitya is dressed for riding, from his light wool
jacket to his glossy tall boots. He walks around the bed to Yuri's side. "Good
morning, my darling. Shall I have your maid come to you, or do you want to
sleep a little longer?"
"Your beast woke me up," Yuri says. He closes his eyes and pillows his head on
his arm; his actual pillow is still slanting over his head. "I'm tired."
Vitya doesn't say anything else, but he brushes Yuri's hair back from his face
before he steps away.
===============================================================================
For the rest of the week, Yuri's days assume a regular form. Woken by Olga or
Makkachin, breakfast with Vitya in the sitting room, tea with the Tsaritsa,
time to explore the library, family dinner, another hour to himself before he's
summoned to Vitya's bed. Vanya spends most of their time together discussing
the coming social season, the balls Yuri will be required to attend, and the
shameful ways in which Yuri's education has clearly been horrifically
neglected. Each dinner is as punishingly awkward as the last. At least the
library is interesting.
There are some aberrations, of course. On the fifth day after Yuri's marriage,
Olga comes to the library after tea. "Tsarevna Lyudmila would like to know if
you are receiving company."
Yuri would prefer to receive no company except for books, but he sighs and
says, out of curiosity more than anything—"Yes. You may bring her here."
Mila is only three years older than Yuri, but she seems impossibly more
worldly. "Have you been hiding in here all week, little sister?" she says
teasingly as she drops into the chair across from him. "I never see you except
at dinner. You know, there are other things to do in Saint Petersburg besides
read. You do look very pretty doing it, though."
Humiliatingly, Yuri feels his cheeks warm. "I'm not very used to society."
"Ah, that's right." Mila smiles at him. "You know that we met once before,
right? You were very small, and you smacked me when I tried to take one of your
dolls away."
"You're making that up," Yuri protests.
"God's truth," Mila says.
Mila entertains herself for half an hour by going through the library shelves
with a careful eye and narrating the finds on her journey while Yuri tries not
to laugh. "Don't we have someone to cut the pages on this?" she says, holding
up a copy of Eugene Onegin. "Oh, Mademoiselle de Maupin, that must be Vitya's.
Are you our world explorer?"
"I've never left Saint Petersburg in my life," Yuri says drily.
"The farthest I've been is Darmstadt. Mama's from there, although I'm sure
you've already been drilled on family trees going back to—" Mila pauses. "Is
that rude? When you've only half of one?"
Yuri folds his arms. "Vitya keeps telling me that your family is my family
now."
"That sounds like our Vitya."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
Mila rolls her eyes. "He takes himself so seriously. Now, tell me—who brought a
copy of The Sorrows of Young Werther in here?"
After a while, it's almost possible for Yuri to forget the first time he
remembers seeing Mila—standing beside her parents by the altar while Vitya
claimed him, her copper locks gleaming in the candlelight.
===============================================================================
Dinner is as lavish as usual; the rich food turns Yuri's stomach. He doesn't
know how to ask to be excused from the imperial table, so he pushes aspic
around his plate for an hour before the Tsaritsa rises and the maids begin to
take away their plates. Vitya doesn't say anything until they leave the Tsar's
quarters, and then only, "Are you feeling quite well, Yura?"
Yuri doesn't meet his eyes. "I'm fine."
After Olga readies him for bed, he lies on his own and dozes, curled in on
himself. His belly aches. Maybe it will pass if it he rests.
===============================================================================
Tonight's nightgown is as ornate as the last. Vitya undoes the tie at the neck,
then presses kisses to the blue lines of Yuri's veins after he unfastens the
buttons at each wrist. "How do you grow more lovely every day, Yura?" he says,
shifting his attention and his lips to the hinge of Yuri's jaw for a moment
before he draws the nightgown over Yuri's head. "Do you know what a torment it
is to be parted from you, even for an hour?"
"No," Yuri says frankly.
Vitya just laughs and kisses him again: on the cheeks, the forehead, the mouth.
"Let me show you."
Tonight, Vitya is playful taking his due. He showers Yuri with kisses and tiny
bites that make Yuri squirm, too aware of the ache in his stomach, and sucks
bruises into the sharp juts of Yuri's hips, where at least no one can see. By
the time Vitya slides his hand between Yuri's thighs, Yuri is more
uncomfortable than when he laid down after dinner.
"Oh," Vitya says with a gasp. "My darling. You're so wet."
"What?" Yuri says, incredulous, and then, when Vitya draws his hand forth, "Oh
no."
The blood glistens on Vitya's fingers in a murderous smear. "Are you hurt?"
Vitya's excitement drops away as quickly as it came.
"No, it's just—" Yuri flushes. He barely understands his own body, how is he
supposed to explain this to Vitya? "I don't feel well."
===============================================================================
"You don't need to call the doctor," Vitya's maid Katya says. "It's only his
monthly course."
"It happens once a month?" Yuri says, horrified.
Katya looks between them for a long moment. "I'll attend to the Tsarevna, if
you please, your imperial highness."
While a bath is run, Yuri sits on a towel. He feels sore and shivery and
nauseated. "Is it really once a month?" he asks Katya. "Forever?"
"Well, not if you're with child," Katya says. "Or when you're older." She
smiles. "Like me."
Yuri sits in the bath and lets Katya bathe him like Nurse did when he was
small. "Nobody told me anything," he blurts out after, while she shows him how
to use the padding that will keep him from bleeding onto his clothes. "Not my
nurse, not anyone."
"Now you know, though," Katya says. "Your course will last a few days. I'll
tell your maid, and you'll rest. It's normal, Tsarevna."
Finally, her words earlier catch up to Yuri. "That means it didn't take,
though? I'm not—" He rests a hand over his belly.
"Don't worry your head about that," Katya says. "It doesn't always happen right
away. Just rest for now."
===============================================================================
Yuri lies in bed, bleeding, and doesn't rest. Why did he think it would happen
so quickly? That he could fulfill his duty to the empire with so much ease?
Impossible to think that it's only been a month since the first time he bled,
when the thread that held him tight had fought to keep it in. He's still sore
from being unsealed, uncomfortable from being taken, and now this. The mattress
feels too soft, or maybe it only feels that way because he's hurting. And cold.
Yuri spends half an hour tossing fitfully before Katya comes in to check on him
and then covers him with two more blankets. Exhaustion finally interrupts this
fit of feeling sorry for himself and he slips into a fitful sleep.
===============================================================================
Yuri wakes up lying in his own bed and his own blood. "Let me get you changed,"
Olga says, as if this is nothing, and Yuri endures the humiliation of being
cleaned up after like he's wet the bed, the sheets changed by two other maids
while Olga washes him and dresses him in a clean pad and gown. "Now lie back
down," she says. "The Tsaritsa has sent down some tea for you."
Does everyone in this palace know, then? Unbidden, the sight of the raised
altar cloth comes to him, fluttering before the audience, a scarlet banner.
Yuri settles against the pile of pillows the maids brought in with them and
drinks the tea: it tastes like fennel and ginger. "Breakfast?"
"Breakfast will be brought to you," Olga says.
For once, breakfast is something Yuri actually wants to eat—porridge and
tvorog. Even with his belly aching and his stomach queasy, he enjoys it. He's
finishing the last of the porridge when an insistent knock comes at the door.
"I'd like to see my wife!"
Olga cracks open the door. "He's resting now," she says. "Perhaps at tea, your
imperial highness."
In between the page turns of his book, Yuri spends the morning contemplating
that. It's strange that this blood, of all things, can serve as a barrier
between him and the rest of the world. "Could I take tea in the library? Or
dinner in the sitting room?"
"You can dine wherever you like, Yuri Andreyevich." Olga comes to his bedside.
"No one will trouble you while you are indisposed, or think it rude." She
pauses. "If the Tsaritsa calls on you, you may wish to receive him."
"I will, then," Yuri says. "All of that. Thank you."
===============================================================================
The last time Yuri's blood came, he was in bed for days; his sex was still
bound, and too tightly-. The dull ache low in his belly is no more pleasant
than the sharp pain of before, but it is at least bearable. Dressed in a skirt
and blouse that skim over his loosened stays and seated on a comfortable sofa,
Yuri can tolerate spending an hour out of bed. He's idly paging through one of
the literary volumes Mila pulled out to mock yesterday when Vitya and the tea
cart arrive in quick succession.
"My darling," Vitya says, falling to his knees before the sofa as the maid
tries to set the table with a straight face. "I couldn't sleep last night! I
was so worried for you! Don't be ill, I can't bear it." He lays his head in
Yuri's lap and bleats with distress.
Yuri stares at the maid for a long moment before he looks down at Vitya.
"There's nothing wrong with me, you idiot."
That's not true, but it does seem to dampen Vitya's ardor. They manage to spend
several minutes silently sipping tea across from each other before Yuri spits
it out.
"I'm not with child," he says. "That's what the blood means. I'm sorry."
Vitya nods. He hesitates for a moment before he speaks. "I asked my mother."
"Oh," Yuri says.
"You didn't know to expect it?"
Yuri stirs another spoonful of jam into his tea. "It's only happened once
before. That's how they knew I was—ready."
The silence that follows isn't an uncomfortable silence. Yuri eats several
buttery cookies, careful to corral the crumbs onto the napkin over his lap.
Vitya drains his cup of tea and pours another.
When Vitya gets up to leave, he crosses to Yuri and leans down to kiss Yuri's
forehead. "Worry not, my Yura. I'll put a child in you yet."
***** Chapter 5 *****
On the third morning, Olga says, "The Tsaritsa will join you for tea."
Yuri does not wish to receive anyone for tea. He sulks through breakfast with
Vitya, who is distracted by a sheaf of quickly written cursive. Vitya looks up
when Yuri has nearly cleared his plate. "Are you improving, Yura?"
"A little," Yuri says delicately. He keeps bleeding through the linen cloths
between his legs, but not as quickly as the first day; the wounds from his
stitches have finally healed.
"I want to consult the physician," Vitya says.
Yuri scowls. "Katya says it's normal."
For a moment, Vitya looks upset, but his countenance resumes its usual amiable
look just as quickly. "I want you to take."
Yuri doesn't have anything to say to that.
===============================================================================
Vanya is dressed so finely that Yuri feels underdressed in his emerald tea gown
with its heavy beading and pleated bodice. The samovar that the parlor maid
brings in is smaller than the one in Vanya's rooms, the cups less fine. Yuri
knows his manners well enough to be a guest at the imperial table, but he's
hardly schooled in hosting. He waters their tea so sparingly it's nearly black
and tries to disguise the flavor in his own cup with lingonberry jam.
"Yura," Vanya says firmly. "Did we not hire you tutors?"
Yuri bristles. "I can read in four languages."
"You are artless," Vanya says, and proceeds to finish his first cup in silence.
For the second round, Vanya pours. His gesture is perfect, as are the tendrils
of his coiffure and the folds of his skirt over his lap. Yuri can't help but
feel judged by the very tilt of Vanya's wrist. He drinks his tea unsweetened
and tries not to fidget.
Finally, Vanya sighs. "Perhaps that's what my Vitenka needs. He's all
cleverness, and you're hardly polished. Very lovely, of course."
"Thank you," Yuri says into the pause that follows.
"You don't mean that. You've no gratitude," Vanya says.
Yuri looks down at his tea, which offers no answers.
"No one told you, what it means when your blood comes?"
Yuri shakes his head. "Who would?"
Vanya's face goes hard. "We'll find you a better tutor," he says at last. "I
was remiss in leaving your education to others to supervise."
Somehow, no matter how humiliating, it's a relief to be seen through. Yuri nods
and sips his tea. He tries not to squirm; the blood-slick linens beneath his
gown chafe his thighs.
===============================================================================
After tea, Yuri settles in to continue re-reading Chardin’s travelogue, but his
mind keeps wandering. He stares out the window over the city and thinks about
what kind of tutelage Vanya might want someone to provide. Perhaps there's
obscure etiquette about how to let a Tsesarevich take you and Vitya's merely
been too polite to educate him.
Yuri's eyes fall on the secretary, its door left open to expose cubby-holes
packed with stationery and drawers full of who-knows-what. The only things on
the surface are a badly stained ink-blotter and a few discarded pen nibs.
Strange that of all things in this room, it's the desk that's been left
untidied.
Cautiously—as if anyone were here to watch—Yuri sets aside his book and crosses
to the desk. He draws a sheet of paper out from one of the cubbies, so fine
between his fingers that it must be linen. The largest drawers in the secretary
are locked, but the smaller give up their treasures with barely a whisper:
India ink, pens, polished brass nibs, and stubby candles of red sealing wax.
Yuri stands for a long moment with the paper in his hand, hesitating, before he
sits.
Dear Grandfather, he writes.
Already, he's hesitant, cautious of the silk frills of his sleeves dragging
hazardously near the wet page. What is he to say, anyway? Dear Grandfather, I
miss you, it's very nice here, I hope to see you soon, I have finished my
dinner at least two days in a row, when did you know that the imperial family
intended to breed me? Yuri takes a shaky breath at that last, the very thought
of which feels like a betrayal. Then he balls up the letter in his fist and
puts the rest back where he found it.
Of course, there's nowhere to put the crumpled paper. Yuri jams it between the
pillows on the sofa and sits back down with his book.
Not a quarter of an hour later, the door to the library swings open. "Yura? Ah,
here you are."
Yuri resists the urge to tuck his stained fingers into his lap.
"Mama has retained a dance instructor," Vitya says, seating himself on the
chair opposite Yuri. "Are you well enough to be on your feet?"
"I know how to dance," Yuri says.
Vitya smiles, infuriatingly inscrutable. "Will you deny your partner the
satisfaction?"
"It's just dancing," Yuri says. "You can do it with anybody."
"Ah, but there's a ball to be held in our honor."
Yuri sighs. "I can't today." Forget about ink; he's horrified by the thought of
blood seeping through his skirts, exposing what lies beneath the surface.
"I'll ask again tomorrow," Vitya says. Then he leans back in his chair and
just… watches Yuri. "What are you reading, my darling?"
"The Bible," Yuri says flatly.
Vitya didn't have to come here. He could have asked Olga, or sent another
servant. He ought to be wherever he is most of the day, instead of interrupting
Yuri's hour with his book. Yuri doesn't know what to make of it, so he stares
at his book until the Latin alphabet blurs before his eyes and Olga comes to
collect him for dinner.
===============================================================================
The nightgown Olga brings out is soft cotton with blue ribbon woven through the
openwork around the yoke and along the sleeves. "Your husband has asked you to
join him tonight."
Yuri startles. "But I'm—"
Olga nods. "I know."
He doesn't realize until Olga beckons to him that she means Vitya has asked for
him so early in the evening. Already, Yuri's learning what to expect. He
follows her past the closed door between their two rooms, out into the hallway,
and through the door there.
Vitya is on the bed, as usual, but this time he has a lap desk and a stack of
papers on the nightstand. "Yura!" he says, lifting his head. "Come join me."
"I'm unwell," Yuri says.
Unperturbed, Vitya pats the space beside him. "I ask only your company,
dearest."
Yuri doesn't know how to refuse, so he complies, coming around the side of the
bed and getting beneath the covers. The room is bright with kerosene light, but
Yuri hasn't brought anything to read. He closes his eyes and tries to ignore
the glow.
"Tell me about your day," Vitya says after a few minutes.
Yuri considers whether or not he can successfully feign sleep. "There's nothing
to tell."
"Well." There's a rustle of paper. "I know that you had tea with Mama, you read
in the library, and you're too indisposed to dance. That's something."
"I'm not indisposed, I'm bleeding," Yuri spits out.
"The physician did say that was normal. That—it might be harder for you."
"Do you think I enjoy lying around all the time?"
"Well," Vitya says in a very measured tone, "I must say, darling, I've hardly
any idea what you enjoy at all."
After a while, Yuri starts to drift off. The door opens and shuts, the lights
dim, the door opens and shuts again. Vitya moves around next to him, and then
the covers lift as Vitya slides beneath them. A chilly hand brushes Yuri's and
Yuri startles awake with a gasp. "You're cold!"
"Yes, I'm aware." Vitya strokes Yuri's hand with his cold fingers once more
before going away. "Sleep well, my Yura. Goodnight."
===============================================================================
The dress that Olga selects for him in the morning is low-necked enough to
expose the mottled yellow ghost of the bruise on Yuri's throat, and the
delicate amethyst parure she chooses does nothing to hide it. Rich purple silk
picks up the color of the gems in his hair and around his neck; the bodice of
pale green is belted tightly over Yuri's loosened stays. "Is Vanya coming for
tea again?" he asks finally as Olga slips a opal ring onto this finger. "What
are you dressing me for?"
Olga lifts her head. "The Tsaritsa has arranged for your instruction."
"By whom?"
"Princess Baranovskaya," Olga says, as if it should be obvious. "The Mistress
of Robes."
Yuri hasn't thought of the woman who dressed and undressed him for the altar
since it happened. He's tried not think of that night at all. Her face comes
back to him immediately, though—sharp-boned and sharp-eyed, her hair pulled
back into a restrained arrangement of braids piled on her head. "Is she coming
for tea?"
"She's waiting for you now." Olga hesitates. "She asked me not announce her."
"Well, announce her in the future," Yuri says.
He's already angry and embarrassed as he walks down the hall past Vitya's
closed door and the lure of the library to the sitting room, where breakfast is
waiting untouched before Princess Baranovskaya. "Tsarevna," she says. "Good
morning. Is this when you usually rise?"
"Sometimes," Yuri says, carefully sitting down in the chair opposite.
They sit for an uncomfortable minute in silence before Princess Baranovskaya
speaks. "Do you need to be told how to greet a guest?"
Yuri stares at his bowl of kvas.
Princess Baranovskaya sighs. "Unpromising."
===============================================================================
Vitya appears at tea time, all good cheer and casually perfectly manners. "Aunt
Lilia," he says, bending to kiss her on the cheek. "Have you spent a pleasant
morning with my wife?"
"He is an embarrassment to the imperial family, but he may improve," Princess
Baranovskaya says dryly.
"My Yura is a quick learner." Vitya moves to Yuri's side and drops his hand
onto Yuri's shoulder. The weight of it feels like a brand. "May I steal him for
tea?"
Princess Baranovskaya sighs. "If you must." She rises from her chair and fixes
Yuri with a stern look. "I will be here tomorrow at 8 o'clock precisely. I
expect you to be ready for me."
"Yes, Lilia Petrovna," Yuri says stiffly.
Vitya shows her out, and just like that, she's gone and Yuri is alone, and he
can't stop shaking. He shouldn't be like this. He shouldn't be—
"Darling," Vitya says, kneeling before him. "Are you unwell?"
Tears well up in Yuri's eyes—he can't help it. "I want to go home." He covers
his face with his hands, as if this will hide his shaking shoulders.
He half-expects Vitya to put his hands on him, but Vitya stays where he is at
Yuri's feet. "This is your home now," he says softly. "What can I do?"
"You shouldn't have married me."
When Yuri lowers his hands, Vitya looks serious. "I spent 15 years waiting for
you, my Yura."
"Well, I wasn't waiting for you," Yuri spits out.
Yuri's been bound his whole life—by this betrothal, by the white string that
kept him pure and untainted, preserved for Vitya's use. Babied by Nurse,
haphazardly tutored, with long evenings spent by Grandfather's side. He didn't
even feel the cage until it was gone. Now he's in a larger one, yet more
tightly kept than ever, with a million unspoken rules he doesn't know how to
follow. All for the vessel inside him.
"You are mine, and I won't give you up," Vitya says. "It doesn't matter what
Aunt Lilia says about your manners. You're my wife. You're mine."
***** Chapter 6 *****
Chapter Notes
     Happy birthday, Vitya! Merry Christmas to those who celebrate. :)
Having Princess Baranovskaya as a tutor is a miserable experience, but by the
end of the third day, Yuri can't deny that he's learning things. No amount of
drilling in table etiquette at home could have prepared him for actually having
a fish knife ranged among the tableware at the dinner table. Princess
Baranovskaya scolds him for being too familiar with the servants, his poor
posture, and lazing in his quarters while he bleeds. "You're a woman," she says
primly. "Not weak."
"I'm not—" Yuri protests.
Princess Baranovskaya shakes her head. "It doesn't matter what you call
yourself, Tsarevna. Your role in this court is to bear and bear with your lot,
and so you will."
Each afternoon, their lessons are interrupted by Vitya's cheerful presence.
He's quite informal with Princess Baranovskaya, but she puts up no more than a
token protest to Vitya curtailing her time with Yuri. At last, Yuri's found
something to feel grateful for, which is nearly as wretched as sulking about
his unasked-for elevation to imperial life.
The third day Vitya comes to Yuri's rescue, he doesn't sit in the chair that
the Princess has recently vacated; instead, he comes to stand by Yuri's chair
so that Yuri has to look up at him. "Sweetheart," he says. "I heard that you
were well again this morning. Is that true?"
The cloths between Yuri's legs were hardly stained overnight; they've stayed
pristine since he rose this morning. If the servants are reporting to Vitya,
Yuri can hardly lie. "Yes," he says reluctantly.
Vitya reaches out and cups Yuri's chin, so he can't duck his head. "So you'll
come to me tonight, darling."
Yuri can hardly refuse. He didn't need Princess Baranovskaya to teach him that.
===============================================================================
Olga dresses Yuri in the same nightgown he wore on his wedding day. "Does he
like this one?" Yuri says as she drapes the matching peignoir over his
shoulders. "Why did you pick it?"
"I like it," Olga says. "You're allowed to pick your own clothes if you wish,
Yuri Andreyevich."
Yuri can barely figure out what dress and what shoes ought to go together, let
alone which of the dozen patent tournures and crinolettes ought to go over
which petticoat beneath the skirts. "That's fine," he says. "I'll tell you if I
want to."
Olga smiles at him. For the first time, it occurs to Yuri that she's a very
good ladies' maid—that her insouciance, her willingness to humor his insistence
that she not address him formally are marks of her status in the household. He
doesn't even know her last name.
"Will you rest until your husband sends for you?" she says.
Yuri nods.
He can't rest, of course. Everything's a jumble in his head—all of Princess
Baranovskaya's lessons, the way Vitya's treated him since his blood came, the
way the slide of silk feels over Yuri's too-sensitive skin. He's healed since
Vitya last took him. Will Vitya be rougher? Will it hurt more now, or less?
When Vitya asks for him, Yuri follows Olga through the door, tense with nervous
anticipation. He can see the oil already out beside the bed. The belt of
Vitya's robe is loose, exposing a slice of pale skin, the definition of his
chest. Yuri's palms are sweaty.
"Don't frown, darling," Vitya says as Yuri approaches him. He touches Yuri's
wrist to unfasten the cuff of the gown and hesitates. "Your heart is beating so
fast."
Yuri tries to smooth out his scowl. "Just do it," he says. "Just—"
If he commands it, it's almost like he's choosing it, whatever Vitya will do
with him.
What Vitya does with Yuri is undress him, then lie in bed for too long doing
nothing more than pressing their unclothed bodies together. Rather than
soothing Yuri, it ratchets up his nerves. "Shhh," Vitya says, smoothing his
hair. "The physician says nerves can keep you from conceiving. You musn't be so
afraid. I won't hurt you."
Of course. "I'll try," Yuri says, and he takes one careful breath after
another, trying to will himself into docility instead of saying, you've hurt me
already.
Vitya is gentle with him, working his oiled fingers inside Yuri's tender sex,
which has grown tight with a week of disuse. Yuri has to fight not to flinch
from the stretch and the pressure as Vitya's cheeks warm, his cock swelling
against Yuri's leg as he prepares Yuri to accept him. By the time he pushes
inside Yuri, he's worked Yuri loose enough that the stretch is nothing; it's
only the movement that's uncomfortable. When Yuri squirms, trying to catch his
breath, Vitya takes it as encouragement; he pushes in so deep that his cock
strikes the back of his passage and Yuri cries out in alarm.
"I'm sorry," Vitya says, dropping sloppy kisses on Yuri's cheeks, slowing his
hips into halting, unsteady thrusts. "So sorry, Yura, but you feel—" He
finishes inside Yuri not long after that, and then pulls away to grab a pillow
from the other side of the bed. "Under your hips. It'll help keep my seed in
you."
"Oh," Yuri says.
Vitya studies him carefully with languid eyes. "You must relax, darling. Let me
help you." Then he moves in between Yuri's spread legs, leans over Yuri's
tilted hips, and takes Yuri's cock into his mouth.
Yuri gasps at the unexpected heat, the slick engulfment of Vitya's mouth. Vitya
teases Yuri from softness with his tongue and works him slowly with long
swallows until Yuri spills down Vitya's throat, unsettled and overwhelmed. He's
immediately exhausted by the exertion, his limbs lax and his legs akimbo, and
he doesn't bother to adjust his posture as Vitya draws back and wipes the back
of his hand across his mouth.
"There you are, my sweet wife," Vitya says. "If this is what you need, I'll
take you like this every time." He kisses Yuri's flushed cheeks before he takes
the pillow away.
Yuri doesn't fight it when Vitya pulls him close after. His eyes are closed
before Vitya summons Katya to dim the light; he's tumbling into sleep before
Vitya finishes arranging them on the bed, Yuri's back pressed to his stomach,
Vitya's softened cock pressed against his backside.
===============================================================================
Yuri awakens to the quiet movements of Vitya in the pale lamplight. No—the
movements of Vitya's valet, because Vitya himself is standing still while
Sergey sponges clean his thighs. Vitya is nearly dressed when Yuri looks again,
with Sergey precisely adjusting the folds of Vitya's tie, lest someone offer
scrutiny when Vitya rides hours before the late-morning winter sunrise.
"Yura," Vitya says.
Yuri blinks up at Vitya's face, hovering above his own. Oh. He's fallen back
asleep, or maybe dreamed, because Vitya is standing above him in a heavy robe,
damp-haired, eyes glittering. "Is something wro—" He's cut off by a yawn.
"No," Vitya says. "You were just sleeping, and I've the task of waking you."
"Already?"
Instead of answering, Vitya leans down to press his mouth to Yuri's. His lips
are warm in the chill air of the room. Yuri can only blink up at him in
confusion as Vitya pulls away. "I must take you again," Vitya says, tucking a
strand of Yuri's hair behind his ear. "You don't mind, do you?"
As if it would matter if Yuri did mind. Just now, though, Yuri is only half-
awake, and only half-mindful. It's easy to drowse and let Vitya do the work of
getting him with an heir. He says nothing, but as Vitya pulls the covers back,
Yuri parts his legs.
Vitya slicks his fingers and slides between Yuri's thighs; his lips part with a
happy sigh. "You're still so loose," he says. "And—full of me."
"Mmm," Yuri says, closing his eyes.
Maybe the imperial physician knows what he's talking about, because it's hardly
painful at all like this, still soft and relaxed from sleep. Yuri lies on his
back and lets Vitya do all the work, drowses around the steady push of Vitya
into his body. His loose hand on the bed brushes Vitya's knee and Vitya
shudders, too ready and easy, even after last night. Vitya doesn't alter his
steady pace, though. By the time he spends inside Yuri, Yuri's nearly asleep
again; this, too, feels like dreaming.
===============================================================================
"And why are you late, Tsarevna," says Princess Baranovskaya.
Yuri carefully takes the seat across from her. He forces a smile and says, in
his very best impression of Vanya, "Must I account for my time to you, Lilia
Petrovna?"
===============================================================================
Vitya returns early from his work this afternoon, ink poorly wiped from his
fingers. "Are you a clerk, Victor Ilyich?" Princess Baranovskaya chides him.
"At least you're timely, unlike your bride."
"That's my fault," Vitya says smoothly. "We are practicing in the ballroom, are
we not?"
Princess Baranovskaya nods. "Once the Tsarevna is dressed appropriately."
So Yuri spends half an hour having his dress changed for a sumptuous frock of
dove-gray-and-blush shot silk, the combs in his hair changed from pearl and
goldwork to imperial topaz. Olga fusses over Yuri's ears, clipping diamond
drops from another set to his ear; the fastenings are so tight he winces. "They
wouldn't hurt if you'd pierce them," she says.
Like piercing wouldn't. "I don't care for it."
"See how you fare with these, then," Olga says, fastening a cascade of imperial
topaz and diamonds around his throat.
The dancing slippers she supplies are pale pink, although the toes barely peep
beyond the curtain of Yuri's fringed hem. He's not used to walking so heavily
dressed in shoes without support around the ankle; he nearly stumbles coming
back into the sitting room, but Vitya catches him easily and somehow makes it
look as if he's merely offering Yuri his arm. "There you are, my lovely wife,"
he says, looking down at Yuri with his cool blue eyes as if they were the only
ones in the room. "Will you dance with me now?"
Yuri himself is only too aware of Princess Baranovskaya sitting a few feet
away. "I—yes, Vitya."
Monsieur Bessy, the imperial dance instructor, is waiting for them in the
ballroom along with a pianist. Yuri almost doesn't notice them at first—he's
too awed by the scale of the room, with its tall columns, high ceilings, and
tiered crystal chandeliers. When Princess Baranovskaya clears her throat, Yuri
realizes he's stopped in his tracks; Vitya hasn't released his arm.
Their lesson begins at once.
At the center of the ballroom, Vitya takes three steps back from Yuri. When the
slow opening notes of the waltz sound from the piano, Yuri collects his skirt
and curtsies, feeling the weight of his piled braids as he bows. After they
straighten, the pianist begins an andante trill that echoes high and clear in
the ballroom. Vitya tucks his right hand behind his back, gracefully extending
his left arm with his hand raised.
They fall into place with surprising ease, though Yuri’s never had a partner so
tall. Vitya barely cradles his hand, and yet the solidity of his hold is
undeniable. With the beginning of the next bar, Vitya's hips shift, and then
they're moving together across the floor in the familiar rhythm Yuri practiced
with his old dance tutor two afternoons a week: one-two-three, one-two-three,
one-two-three. Dancing with Vitya is nothing like stepping on Mr. Sokolov's
toes. Vitya guides Yuri so easily it feels like Yuri's flying, tilting their
frame to promenade, seamlessly embellishing their movements.
When he steps in between Yuri’s legs and starts to pivot, Yuri floats more than
steps with him. His head is canted away from Vitya, turned toward their
audience of three, whose faces whirl into nothingness as they move. Even
keeping his eyes distantly focused over Vitya’s shoulder, he’s already dizzy.
Yuri’s slippers glide over the floor with barely enough time to touch between
steps. When Vitya lifts his hand, Yuri spins closely around him for several
breathless turns before Vitya breaks them out of their orbit to lead Yuri
across the dance floor.
“Arrêtez! Arrêtez!” Their instructor's voice cuts through the piano, which
comes to an abrupt halt. The momentum nearly carries Yuri away, but again Vitya
catches him, bracing Yuri carefully in his arms. Monsieur Bessy strides over,
his step as light as his gaze is stern. His hand ignores the plaits on the back
of Yuri’s skull, grasping the taut hair at the nape of his neck to draw his
head up from his spine, angled opposite Vitya’s. Heat stains Yuri's cheeks.
Monsieur Bessy's fingers press between Yuri’s shoulder blade, forcing his chest
up towards Vitya. To Vitya, there’s only the slightest correction, guiding his
right hand lower on Yuri’s back.
“Again.”
At the end of the hour, even Vitya’s cheeks are flush, and sweat beads on both
their brows. Vitya ends their final waltz with a dip. As he guides Yuri upright
again, he pauses with his hand still resting on Yuri’s back, his eyes locked on
Yuri's for the first time since they stepped onto the parquet floor. Yuri is
achingly conscious of his sweat-soaked chemise and the remains of Vitya's
spendings from this morning chafing his thighs, but he doesn't look away.
***** Chapter 7 *****
Yuri's days adopt a pattern over time. He's almost entirely surrounded by the
women of the imperial household; while he sees the Tsar at dinner and Monsieur
Bessy fusses over him at dance practice, the only man Yuri speaks more than a
few words to is Vitya.
Yuri's never felt like a girl, and the secret between his legs hasn't
transformed him into one. Yet here he is, slotted into stays and the imperial
bloodline, with Vitya slotted between his thighs like an elaborate puzzle. Olga
braids his hair, Vanya fusses over his deportment, Princess Baranovskaya forces
him to rehearse his curtsey, as if Yuri knelt for more than four people in the
nation. Sometimes Mila joins them, sitting primly beside her mother at tea or
not-so-primly in the privacy of Vitya's quarters. "You're so boring," she says
as Yuri tries to serve them tea. "Don't you ever do anything naughty?"
Yuri sets the teapot back on the samovar and glares at her. "I'm not allowed to
do anything interesting. I'm barely allowed to—" He gestures at the shelves
around them.
"You could go and see the rest of the palace," Mila says. "You could tour the
grounds. No one would stop you."
Yuri tries to remember all the things Princess Baranovskaya said about
maintaining a demure face.
Mila looks at him for a long moment. "You're afraid."
"I'm not!"
"I forgot that you've never been out in the world and you haven't any friends,"
Mila says casually. "But I'm your sister, so I'm better."
===============================================================================
That's how Yuri ends up sneaking out on a Sunday, when even the usual servants
are at rest and Princess Baranovskaya otherwise occupied, if leaving his
quarters accompanied by Mila could be considered "sneaking." They walk
cautiously through the dim pre-dawn corridors to the ballroom, which the
servants have to light for them. The ballroom seems even emptier than usual
without Vitya or their dance master.
Someone else lets themselves into the ballroom. Yuri turns to look, nervous,
but Mila is nearly sprinting across the room. "Gosha!" she says, throwing her
arms around the tall man's neck. "Yura, come meet my cousin, Georgi
Alexandrovich. Gosha, this is Yuri Andreyevich, whom you've heard so much
about."
Georgi bows politely. "Good morning, your imperial highness."
"Gosha!" Mila elbows him lightly. "We're family. Now, are you going to play for
us or not?"
By now, Yuri knows the opening by heart: his curtsey, Mila's bow. Their
petticoats crush between them when they come together, but it's not as
disastrous as Yuri feared. Dancing with Mila is nothing like dancing with
Vitya; she's forceful where Vitya is directed, firm where he's yielding, and
her control isn't quite as strong. They nearly skitter across the dancefloor at
one point, coming out of a tight pivot, and Mila's laugh echoes through the
room. "Don't get us killed," Yuri grumbles at her, but she only laughs more.
"Vitya wouldn't like it."
Mila can barely speak. "Vitya!" she chokes out. "What about Mama?"
Georgi—whose playing is perfectly adequate, if not inspired—pauses. "What are
you doing?"
"Having fun," Mila says. "Not like you'd know about that!"
Yuri's cheeks are hot and his lungs burn beneath the compression of his corset.
"Play that one again," he says as imperiously as his composure will allow.
By the time Georgi has made his way through The Blue Danube, Yuri's had both
his feet stepped on, the hem of his dress likewise abused, and he's certain the
young maid standing in for Olga will cry when she sees how much he's loosened
his meticulously styled hair. They stop in the center of the room to catch
their breath while Georgi rummages through the sheet music inside the piano
bench.
It's only because of the dimness of the room that Yuri sees it, at the end of
the colonnade—the slash of light from an open door. Someone is leaning against
a column, watching them. Riding boots, dark jacket, and a tell-tale mop of
silver hair. Mila laughs again and tugs at Yuri's wrist; when he glances back
to that column again, both Vitya and the light from the hallway are gone.
===============================================================================
"His court dress must be blue," Vanya says. "But not too bright, not too dark,
not too pale. Muted? It must bring out the hazel in his eyes. I'd put him in
green if he wouldn't be mistaken for a lady-in-waiting."
"Of course, your majesty," says the dressmaker. She's said those four words
approximately twenty times since Vanya entered the room. Her assistants are
swarming over Yuri as if the measurements that were taken weeks ago have
somehow drastically changed. "Perhaps mazarine? Cerulean?" The dressmaker
rifles through a basket of fabric samples on the table and comes up with two
squares of velvet.
Vanya scrutinizes the fabric. "I think this one will do," she says finally.
"Yura, come here."
Reluctantly, one of the assistants lets him go to Vanya. She holds up each
sample against his cheek for a long moment.
"What do you think, your majesty?"
"Cerulean goes well with his coloring," Vanya says. "Don't you agree, Yura?"
"Yes?" Yuri says cautiously.
Vanya sighs and shoves the fabric sample into the hands of the dressmaker.
"Perfect. You'll embroider it with roses, of course."
"Let me show you the pattern book," the dressmaker says.
The court dress itself doesn't materialize for several weeks. Princess
Baranovskaya oversees the final fitting; unlike Vanya, she neither hovers nor
intrudes on Yuri's personal space. "I want to see it with the veil and the
sash," she says. "And a crown, although I supposed we'll have to fetch that
from the Tsaritsa. Do you have—ah, yes, that will do."
Yuri barely recognizes the person in the mirror under the plain crescent
holding the veil in place. The open sleeves fall to his knees, the train
flowers across the floor, and the scarlet ribbon of the Order of St. Catherine
slashes across his chest with its jeweled badge resting at his hip. Even
without other adornment, he no longer looks like a child or a frightened bride.
He looks like royalty. Like the Grand Duchess he is.
"Monsieur Bessy has made progress on your posture," the Princess Baranovskaya
says. "Of course, there is always room for improvement."
===============================================================================
If Yuri thought the jewelry in his room to be fine, he's quickly disabused of
that notion by the collection in Vanya's boudoir. He can hardly focus on a
single piece, eyes skittering over the jewels on display as he dodges the two
Scottish terriers who follow Mila through the room. Vanya himself is sitting on
a chaise, watching the scene unfold. "Yura, I want you to try on all of the
tiaras for me. We must have you in something appropriate."
Mila's nose crinkles. "Mama, you're not trying to marry him off."
"Milasha."
"What? You don't want me to look expensive?"
Yuri glances between the two of them, then settles his gaze on the dogs, which
seems safest.
"Someday, Yura will be representing Rossiyskaya as a nation. He must look as
formidable as he is beautiful. You don't need any help with that, Mila."
"I am very formidable," Mila agrees as one of her little dogs nips at the hem
of her dress.
Vanya sighs. "Yura, take down that one on top, if you can reach it. Yes, with
the sapphires."
The sapphires in question are nearly the size of Yuri's thumb, and the whole
tiara glitters with diamonds, some inset into the white gold curlicues and some
dangling drops. He lifts it cautiously from the case and places it on his head.
One stem gets caught in his hair and the whole thing lists dangerously to the
side.
Mila can't repress a snicker. "Come to the mirror and look at yourself, Yura."
"Don't tease," Vanya says with the tired tone of one who expects his words to
float into one ear and out the other.
Yura sees exactly what he expects in the mirror: mussed hair and millions of
rubles of precious gemstones staggering drunkenly toward freedom. He's not the
regal Tsarevna any of them want. The best he can do for any of them is let them
dress him like a doll until he gives Vitya a child.
Mila comes up behind him and untangles the tiara before carefully reseating it
on his head. "Look how lovely you are, sister," she says. "If you wear your
usual scowl, I'm sure you'll do Mama proud."
"I said formidable, not rude."
Yuri hides his snicker behind his hand as Mila spins on her heel. She opens
another cabinet and picks up a diadem that's all bars of diamonds arrayed like
crystals thrusting up from rock. "You never let me wear Baba's tiara."
"These all used to be Baba's tiaras," Vanya says. "He'll want to borrow that
one."
"Baba?" Yuri says hesitantly.
"Valentin Feodorovich, the Dowager Tsaritsa." Vanya says. "Mila, try the pearl
and diamond tiara."
"You always make me wear that one!" Mila protests.
By the time they break for tea in Vanya's sitting room, Yuri is decked out in
sapphire, diamond, and gold from crown to collar to the heavy cuffs on his
wrists. Mila is wearing the Dowager Empress's tiara and ten strings of pearls.
Vanya is dressed as usual but for the massive ruby drops in his ears. One of
the dogs has an emerald brooch clipped to his collar. None of the servants seem
to find this odd.
"About your ears," Vanya says to Yuri as he sets his empty cup on the table.
"You'll have to have those pierced, of course."
"I don't—" Yura bites back his words.
"We'll do it today," Vanya says. "After tea. I'll have Lermontev in."
===============================================================================
Yuri can't watch while it happens. He's in the boudoir, under Vanya's careful
scrutiny; Mila and her yapping terriers are still in the sitting room. The
jewels have been put back in their locked cabinets; there's nothing to do but
stare at the walls and try not to crush the delicate crepe of his tea dress.
One of Vanya's maids holds a piece of ice to each of Yuri's earlobes as the
physician draws a golden needle from a leather case. "I'm surprised that this
wasn't done before, your majesty," Dr. Lermontev says to Vanya. "He's otherwise
in excellent physical condition."
"It's a shame," Vanya agrees. "You did such a good job with Mila's, though. I'm
glad we can entrust our Yura to you."
The ice burns against Yuri's ear. His palms are clammy. All he can think of is
the way that Lermontev's hands felt probing his body, testing the freshly-split
lips of his sex, inspecting the ritual punctures unlaced at last. "There," says
Lermontev. "You hardly felt that, did you?" He swats Yuri's hand away when Yuri
reaches up to check.
Yuri knows the second one a moment before it happens, as the maid's hand drops
away to her side. Then: pressure, the sharp bite, and then a stinging thrust of
the needle. He tries not to dig his nails into the fabric over his knees and
fails.
"The diamond studs—here. They'll do for now. How long until he can wear real
ones?
The physician hmms. "Four weeks? Nothing heavy."
"Oh," Vanya says, sounding disappointed. "We'll see about that, I suppose."
Yuri's ears are warming in the well-heated room. He can feel the burn as the
physician pushes the first earring through, and his eyes water with the second.
He can't embarrass himself like this—not with Vanya watching, judging his every
ungrateful move. The physician withdraws, busying himself with his tools, and
Vanya's maid tends to Yuri, removing the towel draped over his shoulders and
wiping at his ears with another. When she pulls away, the white fabric is
smeared with red.
Vanya picks up a mirror from the table and holds it out to Yuri. Yuri pries his
shaking fingers off a ruched embellishment and takes it. His ears are flush
with blood and the diamond studs glitter, smaller than they looked in Vanya's
fingers.
"Look at yourself," Vanya says. "See, isn't that better?"
===============================================================================
At the end of the day, Olga cleans Yuri's new piercings with something that
smells sharp and astringent. She brushes out his hair and dresses him in
nightgown of dotted swiss that buttons nearly to the chin. Brussels lace puffs
at his wrists and peeks out from beneath his hem.
Vitya is as careless with this nightgown and its matching peignoir as he is
with any of the others; it falls to Yuri to make sure they're not torn and
spend the night draped over a chair instead of crumpled on the floor. "You
don't have to fuss so," Vitya says as he throws his own robe onto the floor.
Yuri glances up and looks at Vitya, really looks, the way people are always
telling Yuri to look at himself, as if his own face held any secrets. Vitya is
equally handsome and unreadable. His arms are strong, his spine is straight,
his calves and thighs are well-muscled from riding. His cock is half-hard
already, stirring between his legs.
Yuri smoothes the shoulders of his peignoir over the back of the chair. "Yes, I
do. Have to fuss."
"Just because they're so eager to make a lady out of you—"
"Aren't you?" Yuri says.
Vitya is silent for a moment. "Yura. Come here."
Yuri comes when called, because at least in this, he's let himself be trained.
He's surprised when Vitya sits up and swings his legs over the side of the bed,
drawing Yuri between them. The draft from the window feels cool on Yuri's
shoulders; Vitya's thighs pressed against Yuri's hips feel blazingly hot.
"Darling." Vitya cups Yuri's face in his hands. "My dearest wife, my Yura. You
do know that I want you, don't you?"
"You want a child from me. So does everyone else, Vitya."
Something about Vitya's face changes. He reaches down between them to cup
Yuri's small cock and then, further, to dip his fingers in Yuri's channel.
"You're my wife, not a broodmare. I want—"
"Shut up," Yuri says. "Just do it."
Vitya's cock feels so big when he pushes inside Yuri, even slick with oil. His
hand catches in Yuri's hair and snags one of the diamonds in Yuri's ears. When
Yuri cries out, Vitya lets go, but the wound still burns. Yuri can't help but
tense as Vitya takes him, even as he kisses Yuri's forehead and whispers things
so softly that even thinking about deciphering them makes Yuri's head hurt.
Yuri's eyes sting, hot and wet, and threaten to spill over until Vitya finds
his release.
“Let me—” Vitya begins, reaching for Yuri’s cock, but Yuri pushes his hand away
and rolls on his side. He won't cry. He won't.
***** Chapter 8 *****
Chapter Notes
     ...and somehow, offscreen this whole time... advent was happening...
The debut of Yuri's court dress is the Divine Liturgy on Christmas Day.
While the pious members of the imperial court kept vigil overnight in the
palace chapel, most of the imperial family looks bright-eyed when they step
into the cathedral the next morning. The cathedral looks smaller than it did
the last time Yuri entered, or maybe it's just the vantage point. Instead of
making a lone march up a long carpet, he follows Vitya up the aisle to join the
rest of the imperial family. Yuri finds himself standing between Vitya and Mila
as the processional cross is carried inside. Yuri tries not to stare at the
Dowager Tsaritsa, but it's hard when he's standing on the other side of Mila,
holding a grey-muzzled French bulldog that stares at Yuri with its tongue
lolling out of its mouth as it placidly pants into the cool air.
Despite Nurse's best efforts, Yuri himself is not especially Godfearing. His
mind wanders during the long ceremony as he rubs the opening of one sleeve
between thumb and forefinger, caught up in the contrasting sensations of silk
satin and velvet. The painting above the altar where Yuri was unsealed and
taken for the first time is of Ever-Virgin Mary holding the Christ Child with
unearthly serenity. Yuri can't help but be envious. If only an angel could have
appeared and put the next Tsesarevich in him, left Yuri with virginity intact
and body unsundered. Instead, there's only the relentless mechanics and
sanctified defilement of the marriage rite to perform over and over. Yuri is
still wet with the seed Vitya left in him this morning, sticky between the lips
of his sex and dried on his thighs. Yes, the purity of the Virgin Mother seems
appealing indeed.
Yuri nearly jumps when a hand brushes his in the confines of his sleeve. He
shoots a shocked glance at Vitya, who is gazing at the altar with the reverence
of someone who spent the Paramony fast on his knees in the family chapel rather
than on his bed inside his wife. Of course, given the last sacrament Vitya
received at that altar, maybe that's what Vitya is thinking about.
The Dowager's dog sneezes loudly. Yuri startles again, then clasps his hands in
front of himself demurely while Mila chokes down a laugh.
===============================================================================
"Let me see you before you change," Vitya says as a servant closes the door to
their chambers behind him. "Don't run away, dearest."
"You've seen me," Yuri says. "You've been seeing me for three hours."
Yuri has been in full court dress for all of those, his waist laced the
tightest it's ever been, his shoulders and arms bared to the air by the low
neck and open sleeves. The dress is a marvel of velvet, silk, and golden
thread; with its long train, it weighs easily half a pood alone. Then there's
the petticoats, the stays, the shoes, and the heavy sapphire and diamond tiara.
Even the ballgown Yuri will wear tonight to open the Season seems light and
casual by comparison. He only has a short time to rest before he has to prepare
for tonight.
"Indulge me," Vitya says. "It's Christmas."
"I'm aware," Yuri says.
Vitya smiles at him. "And it's my birthday."
That arrests Yuri where he stands. "Your—what?"
"You know, the day of my birth. When I emerged from Mama's—"
"Yes, all right, that's enough," Yuri says hastily.
Obviously, Vitya has a birthday; he didn't spring to life fully-formed like a
Greek god, despite his physique. It's only that Yuri didn't think about it,
because he doesn't really think of Vitya as a person. Yuri’s heels lock
together underneath the weighty layers of velvet and silk, pinned beneath
Vitya’s yet heavier gaze. In the time it takes Vitya to catch up to him, Yuri
registers how shallowly he's breathing; with each breath, his stays seem
tighter, though he knows they are no more constricting.
Vitya touches Yuri’s wrist with the same reverent expression he turned toward
the altar. The graze of his lips on the back of Yuri’s hand, as if Yuri
demanded commensurate veneration, penetrates deeper than Vitya's cock had as he
opened Yuri to the world. Vitya looks up at Yuri for a moment before he turns
Yuri's hand in his to place a kiss where Yuri's veins flush blue beneath the
pale skin.
Vitya follows their path up Yuri's arm with his lips, too warm against Yuri’s
chilled skin, which is surely what makes him shiver. Each kiss draws Yuri's
attention to the point of contact, to Vitya's mouth and Yuri's skin. Yuri
stares at Vitya's silver crown until it's only at the corner of his vision as
Vitya kisses his throat. Only when Vitya draws back does Yuri think to pull
away.
“Thank you,” Vitya says. "Was that so hard?"
===============================================================================
Was that so hard. Yuri's teeth click together as his jaw sets. In the mirror,
he can see his nostrils flare beneath the coiffure Olga is painstakingly
rearranging, lest someone think the imperial family has fallen so far as to
wear one hairstyle for an entire day.
“Yuri Andreyevich?” Olga says as she adjusts the fall of a curled lock behind
Yuri's ear.
“Today is Vitya’s birthday,” Yuri says.
Olga reaches for the dish of hair pins on the table. “Yes."
Yuri’s nearly gotten used to the scrape of pins against his scalp. But only
nearly. "No one told me."
Olga is tellingly silent.
"Why not? Why—"
"Who would presume that the Tsarevna needed to be reminded?" Olga says
carefully.
Vanya could have told Yuri. Or Mila. Yuri barely noticed it was Advent without
Nurse badgering him into fasting with her all week long; how was he supposed to
remember something he'd never even known?
After she finishes his hair, Olga holds out a purple jewelry case. "Do you wish
to wear your gift from the Tsesarevich?"
"My gift?"
The case holds a parure of red and gold: earrings, bracelet, necklace, and hair
comb. "They're red spinel," Olga says as she drapes these riches over Yuri's
neck and wrists, leaving the earrings in their satin bed for now. "Very fine, I
understand."
"Only the finest for the imperial family," Yuri says drily.
They do suit him, though, and perfectly match the red-and-gold brocade gown
that leaves even more of his arms and shoulders bare; his flat chest is hidden
by a puff of ivory lace inset in the bodice in a stylish if failed attempt at
modesty. Yuri didn't get Vitya a single present. He tries not to scowl at Olga
in the mirror as she tucks the hair comb into place.
===============================================================================
"The Naslednik Tsesarevich," says the master of ceremonies, "and Tsarevna
Yuri."
Yuri has practiced walking down the grand staircase under Princess
Baranovskaya's critical eyes, but that's nothing like doing it before a throng
of watchers who last saw him split open on the altar. He's cautious of the
broad skirts of his gown, the straight line of his back, and of Vitya, who
tucks one arm gracefully through Yuri's before they begin their descent. Yuri
is supposed to keep his chin high and look straight ahead at the crowd, but he
can only stare at the crystal chandeliers until his vision turns spotty.
The troupe of musicians at the side of the room has been playing a soft
serenade that barely lifts above the excited patter of tonight's guests, but as
Vitya and Yuri alight on the dancefloor, they end their song and begin a
sprightly polonaise. Yuri has practiced the dance with Vitya, but that's
another thing entirely to following the Tsar and Vanya as they lead the dance,
trailed by dozens of nobles.
Vanya is surprisingly light on his feet, smiling easily at the Tsar with a
fondness that Yuri hasn't even seen at the family dinner table. Yuri tries to
contort his face into something similar, but he can see by Vitya's expression
that his attempt is unsuccessful. "Relax," Vitya says, squeezing Yuri's hand as
they bend low in their walk. "You like dancing. This is the fun part."
Yuri opens his mouth to disagree just as Victor lifts his arm, cueing Yuri’s
twirl. "Is it?" he says when they face each other again.
"Well, I suppose that's up to you," Vitya says.
They're quiet for the rest of the opening dance, which is nearly half an hour
of parading around the dance floor as they change partners. Yuri smiles
politely at the Tsar and Georgi in turn and tries his best not to embarrass the
Empire; he at least avoids stepping on anyone's toes. He's overly conscious of
the pairs chattering as they swap places, the light yet secure support of
Vitya's hand in his own, alternating with Vanya's and Mila's. For the first
time since they were joined at the altar, Yuri almost pities Vitya. What a
deficient wife Yuri is, next to all these elegant ladies. Poor Vitya.
During the lull between songs, Vitya chatters with some Prince or other and
Yuri finds himself corned by the Dowager, who is sipping champagne while an
attentive servant trails with the dog in his arms. "Do you always carry that
dog like it's a baby?" Yuri says, too fascinated to remember his manners.
"—your majesty."
The Dowager beams and leans down to whisper, conspiratorially, in Yuri's ear.
"Shura is my baby, treasure, and you must call me Baba—don't be silly."
"Baba, are you corrupting my wife?" Vitya says as he approaches them.
Baba just laughs the same charming laugh as Vitya's. They're both tall, silver-
haired, and beautiful; side-by-side, the resemblance is uncanny. "We've barely
met, Vitenka. Allow me at least the evening." He hands his empty glass to Vitya
and holds out his hands to the servant for Shura. "Give me my sweet boy—yes,
yes, I missed you, too."
Yuri barely has a moment to process all that before the piano begins a swift
waltz.
“Darling,” Vitya says, offering his hand. Yuri manages a curtsy before they
spin into the formation. After the slow procession and alternating partners of
the polonaise, following Vitya’s easy lead is a relief. Yuri straightens his
spine, tipping his head back and to the side, gazing over Vitya’s shoulder.
After two laps, Yuri’s eyes begin to focus on the sea of faces, each one toward
him, following their performance across the room. Yuri’s cheeks flush just in
time for Vitya to scoop him at the waist and lift him a breath off the floor.
“What was that?” Yuri hisses, breaking form to stare at Vitya as he finds his
feet again.
Vitya smiles. "Are you having fun yet?"
"No," Yuri says stubbornly as Vitya resumes their swift pace. "I don't like
everyone staring at me."
"Well," Vitya says. "You'll have to get used to that, my Yura."
As the song finishes, Yuri pulls away. "I'm going to… get some water," he says,
striding off the dancefloor right into some old man with a heavily-decorated
military jacket.
All too quickly, Yuri realizes his mistake. No one can approach him to talk
without an introduction, but the crowd is so thick he has to force his way to
the wall where he was standing with Baba earlier. There's no sign of the
Dowager or his dog now, only a man in a suit and a woman in an ornate robe
conversing quietly in their own language. Yuri studies her outfit for a
moment—he recognizes the robe from an illustration. These must be visitors from
Yaponskaya.
When Yuri looks out at the dancefloor again, Vitya is still there, dancing the
cracovienne with some pretty brunette, who smiles as he turns her. Yuri could
be out there if he wanted to. But he doesn't, so he isn't. Right.
Yuri takes a glass of champagne off a tray the next time a servant passes by.
Then another. He's nursing the dregs of that one, pink-cheeked, when Baba
rejoins him.
"There you are, Yurachka," Baba says, squeezing in close enough that Shura can
lick Yuri's arm. "I've been looking all over for you."
Yuri tries to move his arm away from Shura's tongue very politely. "So you
could corrupt me?"
"Our Vitenka did give me a deadline." Baba fishes a treat out of some hidden
pocket and drops it into Shura's waiting mouth. "Yes, I know, my darling, it's
such a trial suffering through these long nights with all these fine people in
their fine clothing. Be good for me."
Yuri isn't sure whether Baba is talking to him or the dog.
"Why don't you go ask the prince from Yaponskaya to dance? Yes, the boy with
the glasses, Prince Yuuri. He's quite shy."
Yuri huffs. "Does he even know how to dance?"
"I'm sure you can find out for us," Baba says.
Yuri's never asked anyone to dance—that certainly wasn't part of his etiquette
lessons. Ladies don't do the asking. However, Yuri's not a lady, and he's had
two glasses of champagne, bringing his lifetime total to three. As if he'd turn
down a dare. "Hello," he says, nodding his head toward first the Prince and
then to the older woman beside him. "You're Prince Yuuri, yes?"
"Y-yes," the Prince stutters. "Tsarevna."
"Can you dance a quadrille? I mean, will you, with me."
The woman next to Prince Yuuri stares at the two of them.
"Yes?" the Prince says finally.
"Great," Yuri says. "Let's do it."
A quadrille, of course, requires four, so they're joined by Minister Okukawa
and Georgi, who is clearly bewildered by Yuri's abrupt engagement in
international relations but comfortable enough with the steps. For all his
stammering, Prince Yuuri is surprisingly deft on his feet, and Minister Okukawa
is merry enough to balance out Georgi's nerves. Maybe it's the champagne, but
Yuri is almost having a good time when the song comes to a close.
"You were better than I expected," he says to Yuuri. "Can you dance a—"
"Forgive me, your highness," Vitya says, coming up to them. "I've spoken for
the next dance with my wife."
Yuri flushes. Vitya isn't looking at him, though—just cooly scrutinizing the
Prince, who looks back just as seriously. "Of course, your imperial highness,"
Yuuri says. "Congratulations on your marriage." He bows to both of them and
retreats.
Vitya steps in close to take Yuuri's place. "Did you think you'd waltz without
me?"
"I've waltzed with Mila," Yuri says. "I don't see how it's different."
The music starts up with the quick plucking of strings. Just as swiftly, Yuri
is swept up in Vitya's hold, spinning around the room so effortlessly it feels
like he's being carried away even as his slippers glide over the parquet. This
is nothing like dancing a staid quadrille an arm's length away from the Prince.
Vitya is so close that the metals on his chest clatter against Yuri's necklace
during an especially tight turn. If their first waltz was nerve-wracking, this
one is overpowering. Yuri is breathless when they come to a stop.
Vitya doesn't let go of Yuri's hand. "Follow me."
===============================================================================
The grand library is unlit and empty except for the two of them. Yuri can only
see Vitya's face by the sharp cut of moonlight over his cheek. Without the
crush of the ballroom, the palace is chilly enough that Yuri can't help but
shiver.
Vitya pushes Yuri up against one of the walls of books and boxes him in, close
enough that Yuri is warmed by the heat of his body. "What did you think you
were doing out there, Yura?"
"I don't know what you mean." Yuri tries not to squirm. His skirts are already
helplessly crushed into the shelves behind him.
"Dancing with—"
"You danced with other people."
Vitya huffs. "I have to. But you—"
"Baba said I should."
Somehow that angers more than placates Vitya. "Baba will tell you plenty of
things. That doesn't mean you should do any of them."
Yuri swallows. "I was bored."
"Ah, there we are," Vitya says. "Tell me the truth."
"I never get to do anything I want to do."
"Darling," Vitya says. "My dearest wife. Tell me how you wish to be
entertained, and I'll entertain you."
Yuri takes in a shaky breath and says nothing.
"Yura."
The library is so quiet that Yuri keeps getting distracted by the sound of
their breathing. "It's your birthday," he says finally. "I didn't give you a
gift."
"I hardly expected one."
"I want to," Yuri says. "Close your eyes."
After a long moment, Vitya complies. He's so tall that Yuri has to push up on
tiptoe to reach his cheek. He lets his lips gentle into a kiss before he opens
his mouth, settles his teeth on Vitya's skin, and carefully bites.
Vitya takes it like a punch. It's not until Yuri releases him that he shudders
and leans, pinning Yuri to the shelves with his weight. "I don't understand
you," Vitya says. He breathes shakily for a long moment before he pulls back
and takes Yuri by the hand. "Come. Come to bed with me."
===============================================================================
Vitya undresses Yuri himself, at least enough for the business at hand; he
unlaces the dress, the stays, strips off the many layers of undergarments
without care. For himself, he only bothers to take off his jacket and unfasten
his trousers. He bends Yuri over the end of the bed and wets Yuri's sex with
spit, even though the oil is steps away. "I cannot wait," he says. "Forgive
me." Then he's inside Yuri, abruptly, and Yuri has to grip the quilt on the bed
to stay in place as Vitya takes what he wants of him.
Yuri feels hot all over, which seems like it could be drink, or the warm hearth
after the chill, or maybe just the enthusiasm with which Vitya is taking him
apart. This, unlike Vitya's attempts at gentle copulation, at least seems
honest. As Yuri has staked his claim with the soft clench of his jaw, Vitya is
doing the same, burying his cock in Yuri's sex at the same time as he sinks his
teeth into Yuri's shoulder. He comes with a great thrust that shoves Yuri
halfway up the bed, and Vitya follows without missing a beat to roll Yuri on
his back and shove a pillow beneath his hips.
"There," Vitya says. "I've done it. I've put a child in you. Do you know who
you belong to, my Yura?"
He doesn't wait for an answer before he takes Yuri's cock into his mouth.
===============================================================================
Afterward, Vitya says, "You won't waltz with anyone but me." He sounds a little
embarrassed.
Yuri yawns. "Fine," he says. "I won't."
***** Chapter 9 *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Tea is excruciatingly awkward.
Baba, dressed exquisitely in silk and ermine, presides, pouring tea so weak it
might as well be water. Vanya smiles politely and doses his cup with a liberal
heap of cherry jam. The maid places a fourth cup on the floor for Shura.
Yuri carefully adds apricot preserves to his tea-water. "Thank you, Baba."
"Ah, you've remembered your manners," Vanya says, too lightly.
Yuri managed to avoid Vanya last night after the polonaise—perhaps by Vanya's
design, because he's hardly easily avoided the rest of the time. "Yes?"
"Yura is such a sweet boy." Baba drops a sugar cube onto the floor for the dog.
"He reminds me of my Mashenka when she was young. Doesn't he remind you of her,
Vanya?"
Vanya stirs his tea. "Masha was more outgoing."
As far as Yuri knows, Grand Duchess Maria Alexandrovna might as well be Duchess
of Continental Europe for all the time she spends home at the smaller palace
Baba favors in Saint Petersburg. "I haven't met her imperial highness yet," he
says.
Baba beams. "I'll have you visit as soon as I'm settled in. I brought the best
aquavit from Copenhagen—"
"Perhaps tea," Vanya says. "Yura could certainly do with more etiquette
practice."
"Oh, I hardly think so." Baba feeds Shura another sugar cube. "Yurachka is
darling just as he is."
This is when Yuri remembers that in the imperial court, the Dowager Tsaritsa
takes precedence over the Tsaritsa Consort.
Across the table, Vanya's posture is ramrod-straight. "Yura needs to prepare to
sit at many tables, Valya. Not only ours."
"My table is Russia's table."
"Yet you set places for whomever amuses you," Vanya says.
"Ah," Baba says. "Is that not my prerogative?"
Beside the table, Shura is dozing and drooling onto Baba's beautifully-made
velvet boots. Yuri wishes he felt so relaxed. "May I have the cherry jam?" he
asks Vanya.
===============================================================================
After tea, Yuri lies down on the sofa in the library and folds his hands over
his full belly. Strange to think that there might now be seed taking root
inside of him, even though they've been trying to that end for nearly two
months; none of it felt real until last night. For which he's somehow escaped
chiding from Vanya, though only because Vanya seems to find Baba's behavior far
more objectionable.
Yuri spent the first fifteen years of his life dealing with no social
machinations more complex than hiding uneaten cabbage and unfinished school
work from Nurse. He has a headache. And a stomachache.
His forefinger drifts between the pages of his latest read, The Golden
Chersonese and the Way Thither. Yuri imagines how sick he would feel in the
dark belly of a fishing boat, traveling the eastern coast of the continent from
Yaponskaya to the sharded islands in the South Pacific. Compared to the
lightless, storm-ravaged tossing of the cabin on these pages, he can hardly be
upset about indigestion.
===============================================================================
Dinner is a tense affair with Baba at one end of the table and the Tsar at the
other. Vanya doesn't seem like he can decide whether Mila or Yuri needs to be
kept farthest away from his mother-in-law; the Tsar and Vitya are deep in some
opaque conversation about the upcoming convention of the Diet of Finland; Baba
is very concerned that Mila's future husband be a Dane. "I'm the only Dane
who's married into the imperial family in a hundred years, and since Vitya's
first betrothal didn't—"
"His first what?" Yuri says.
Awkward silence hangs in the air as a maid freshens their glasses of wine.
Finally, Vitya clears his throat. "I was betrothed to a Danish prince when I
was a child," he says quietly. "He passed away when I was ten, and then I was
betrothed to you."
Yuri stares at him. "I wasn't even born yet when you were ten."
"You're very special, like me," Baba says, entirely unruffled.
The Tsar lifts his head. "Mother."
"And Vanya, of course."
Vanya takes a long drink of his wine.
"Baba, I don't want to marry someone just because they're Danish," Mila says as
if she's said the same words a hundred times. "And they have a constitutional
monarchy now, do they even count?"
"Mila," the Tsar and Baba say together.
Yuri dedicates himself to clearing his plate.
===============================================================================
As Olga helps Yuri out of his drawers, he sees the tell-tale smear of blood.
"Oh," he says, hardly believing. "Oh—it's—again."
Olga dresses Yuri in the softest flannel nightgown he has and puts warm socks
on his feet. The cloths between his legs are already growing damp by the time
he gets in bed and Olga goes to give his excuses. "I'm sorry, Yuri
Andreyevich," she says before she closes the door.
Only last night, Vitya drove into him, said, there, I've done it, I've put a
child in you, and Yuri believed him for an entire day. Well, through a lazy,
late morning after Vitya took him again half-asleep, two tense family meals,
and an entire thoughtful afternoon to himself. The only reason he's here in
this palace and in this life is for Vitya to fill his womb, but this is the
first time he's almost—wanted it.
How is he supposed to face Vitya after this?
Yuri falls asleep hot and wet between his legs, exhausted to the bone.
===============================================================================
Yuri spends most of the following day in bed. At tea time, Olga brings in a cup
of Vanya's herbal tea and a plate of cookies. "His imperial highness wishes to
have dinner with you," she says. "Will you be able to join him?"
The only thing Yuri has done today is nurse enough black tea to ward off a
headache and read about a massive fire near the Victorian Palace in Hong Kong
Harbor. "I don't want to dress for dinner."
Olga winces. "A tea dress?"
"Fine," Yuri says.
Blood rushes from his body and soaks his fresh linens as soon as he rises, and
he's aching and stiff after a whole day of lying in bed. Dressing in even the
loosest of his tea dresses is an ordeal. Olga cleans the still-fresh piercings
in his ears and pairs the diamond studs with a diamond-accented aquamarine
necklace and a simple updo. "There," she says as she adjusts a tendril of hair
that falls behind Yuri's ear. "You're presentable."
Yuri sighs.
"As presentable as I can make you."
"Thank you," he says begrudgingly.
Vitya stands as Yuri enters the sitting room and rushes to meet him as if Yuri
is returning from a long journey and not half-a-day's rest in bed. "Darling,"
he says, kissing Yuri quickly on the mouth. "I'm sorry you are unwell."
Without thinking, Yuri brings a hand to his lips. He flushes. "It's only my—my
monthly—"
"I know," Vitya says.
Dinner is blessedly quiet. In concession to Yuri's condition, the kitchen has
prepared him a simple meal of shchi and rye bread. Vitya gives Yuri's dishes
suspicious glances as he devours the contents of his own. "Are they not feeding
you well?" he says finally.
Yuri sets his spoon down. "Not all of us can subsist on pâté."
"Maybe you need something to strengthen you."
"Because I'm weak?" Yuri says. "Because I can't carry your—"
"It's my fault," Vitya says.
Yuri looks down into his half-finished bowl of broth. "I'm not hungry anymore,"
he says, and gets up from the table.
===============================================================================
Olga dresses Yuri in a delicate nightgown of cotton lawn that he's sure to ruin
by morning and then a heavy robe of Chinese silk brocade. "Your husband has
requested your presence, Yuri Andreyevich."
"But I'm indisposed," Yuri says. "Must I—"
"He has requested it," Olga repeats.
So Yuri comes to Vitya's bed, as he does every night. Vitya looks up from his
reading when Yuri hesitates beside the bed. "Come here, Yura."
"I can't, I'll—" Yuri gestures to the bed. "I'll bleed on it. While I sleep."
"Don't worry about that," Vitya says. "Just come rest."
Lying next to Vitya is hardly restful. Yuri keeps expecting a touch that never
comes, a kiss he can't evade, or one of the syrupy compliments he can't return,
but nothing happens. He dozes while Vitya reads whatever he's reading and
doesn't drift off into uneasy slumber until Vitya turns down the flame.
===============================================================================
Yuri awakes to a hot puddle beneath him and Vitya half on top of him, his head
tucked under Yuri's chin and his feet nearly hanging off the end of the bed.
It's dark out, but it's dark out eighteen hours out of every day in the winter.
"Vitya," Yuri says, quietly but firmly. "Vitya, the bed is dirty. You're in
it."
Vitya grumbles and tightens his hold on Yuri, but after a few moments he lifts
his head. "'s wet," he says sleepily. "I'll—K'ya can change it." Instead of
calling for Katya, though, Vitya climbs out of bed and picks Yuri up as easily
as if Yuri were a kitten, yawning all the while. "You need a bath."
Of course, Vitya has a bathroom—he certainly doesn't use Yuri's—but Yuri's
never given it much thought before. The room is much grander than Yuri's little
chamber, with a massive tub set into a dark wood platform at one end. Vitya
sits Yuri on the edge and runs the taps until he's satisfied with the
temperature. "Wait here," he says as he stoppers the drain. "I'll be right
back."
Yuri listens to the steady rush of water from the pipes instead of whatever
humiliating conversation Vitya is having with Katya, idly dipping his toe in
the water. When he draws the hem of his nightgown up his knees, he can see a
trail of blood that stalled at mid-thigh, still crimson fresh. He's probably
staining the pristine white enamel of the tub right now, but the warm water
feels good on his skin.
"Katya will get you fresh linens and I'll give you a bath," Vitya says as he
flings open the bathroom door again. He's still in his striped sleep pants,
although one side is mottled with drying blood. "My poor Yura. Let me get you
clean."
Yuri lets Vitya undress him, pulling the ruined nightgown over Yuri's head
before carefully freeing him from the stained cloths between his legs. Already,
he can feel the blood trickling down his thighs, dribbling to his knees. He
slides down into the water before Vitya can see, but it only blooms pink in a
humiliating betrayal.
"You don't have to hide from me, darling," Vitya says as he steps naked into
the water beside Yuri, careless of contamination. "Here, I'll open the drain.
We'll run the water until you're clean."
"That won't make it stop," Yuri says, staring at his bent knees beneath the
rippling water.
Vitya kisses his forehead. "I'll do the best I can."
Yuri's whole body is stiff and aching, but the heat of the water as Vitya
washes him with a clean cloth soothes him. Vitya's touch isn't like what Yuri
laid in bed dreading last night. He's very cautious and perhaps too gentle; the
water does most of the work. Even when he touches Yuri's sex, it's perfunctory,
merely wiping away what hasn't already washed off Yuri's outer lips. Vitya's
soap smells like citrus and cedar, familiar from when Yuri has caught the scent
on Vitya himself.
By the time Vitya finishes, Yuri's eyelids are beginning to droop. Vitya dries
off and steps out to retrieve what Katya brought for Yuri. "Do you need help?"
he says, suddenly sounding shy. "I don't know how to—"
"I can do it," Yuri says, yawning.
He's too tired to be shy as he secures the belt that holds up the cloth between
his legs; Vitya has just seen him literally dripping with blood. Yuri puts on
his own nightgown for once, too, drawing the soft flannel overhead and
fastening the buttons at the yoke. The long braid he slept in is wet at the end
from where he failed to keep it out of the water, so he lets Vitya towel it dry
before he turns toward the bedroom, where the bed has been made up with clean
sheets.
Yuri sleeps straight through to the morning.
===============================================================================
Unlike Vanya, Princess Baranovskaya has no foil to challenge her scolding.
"Your behavior at the Christmas ball casts shame on me as your tutor. You
should not have allowed yourself to—"
Yuri is lying on the chaise below the grand window that overlooks the city,
waiting for Princess Baranovskaya to further chide him for lassitude and
succumbing to feminine weakness. "To what?"
"To be so easily influenced," Princess Baranovskaya says.
"Baba—"
"It's impolite to refer to the Dowager so informally unless you are personally
addressing him." Princess Baranovskaya sighs. "Do not take his majesty's
behavior for an example. Please."
"Yes, Lilia Petrovna," Yuri says without much consideration. The Christmas ball
was only three days ago, but already seems long in the past. Yet it's not even
the New Year year—the palace will be hung with decorations until Theophany. If
only Yuri could crawl back in bed until everyone's forgotten how he asked
Yaponskaya's crown prince to dance and, more direly, neglected to have Vitya
introduce him to two dozen members of the extended imperial family.
"You are responsible for your own conduct." Princess Baranovskaya frowns. "I do
not sense that you are taking this seriously."
"Is this why I'm here? Or is it to provide an heir for the empire?" Into the
pause that follows, Yuri adds, "I can't even do that right."
"Tsarevna," Princess Baranovskaya says, sounding strangely gentle. "That could
take months—it's not unusual. The Tsar is healthy and may yet have years on the
throne. God willing, your husband will have many more. You will need your mind
and your manners far longer than your body will bear fruit."
The thought of being taken by Vitya morning and night for months is so
exhausting that Yuri almost feels worse than when he worried he was barren.
Yuri sighs.
"Now say 'thank you,'" Princess Baranovskaya says in her usual tone.
"Thank you, Lilia Petrovna."
===============================================================================
The first night after Yuri's sanitary cloths are sent to the laundry still
clean, Vitya brings a curiosity to bed. "The physician recommended this," Vitya
says, "to help you conceive."
The egg is gold, because of course it is, and on a long golden stem that ends
in a mess of golden curlicues, like the bow of a key. If it weren't for the
stem, the egg would fit in Vitya's palm, but it isn't small. "It's a toy," Yuri
says disbelievingly.
Vitya shakes his head. "It goes inside you, after. To help hold my seed in."
On closer inspection, only the bottom of the egg is one piece; the top is
furled like a rosebud. "Princess Baranovskaya said it's normal if it takes a
while. Do we have to..."
"I've waited too long already," Vitya says quietly.
Yuri doesn't want to think about Vitya's first betrothal or the urgency that
surrounds the lengthening of the imperial bloodline. "Fine. Put it in me
after."
Vitya oils his fingers and loosens Yuri enough that the first stretch of his
cock isn't painful. Still, Yuri is over-sensitive after days of bleeding, and
soon the friction of Vitya moving inside him begins to sting. Even though Vitya
is trying to slow his motions, he loses restraint at the end, spending into
Yuri with stuttering thrusts that leave Yuri gasping and digging his nails into
the sheets. "Do it," he hisses to Vitya. "If you want to do it, do it."
The egg is nearly as big around as Vitya's cock. It goes in without much
struggle, the smooth metal oddly cool against the walls of Yuri's passage. Yuri
shivers and Vitya kisses his cheek. "My Yura, you take it so well."
Once the egg is firmly seated inside, Vitya begins to turn the key. Click,
click, click. Yuri realizes what's happening only when the sides of the egg
begin to bow out into the already tender flesh inside him. Yuri can't even
speak, but his eyes start to water. He's afraid. It doesn't even hurt yet, but
he's afraid. The sharp pain brings him back to that day, on the altar, the last
day of his old life. The end of Yuri Andreyevich Plisetsky.
"I'm sorry," Vitya says as he cranks the egg further open. "Yura, darling, I
must. Just lie still. It'll be over soon." He squeezes one of Yuri's hands,
tense at his side.
When Yuri was split on the altar, he didn't know what was coming. But he knows
now—well enough, anyway. The tears spill over unbidden. He can't do it. This is
too much. "Take it out, take it out," he says, knocking his knee against
Vitya's shoulder. "I can't—you have to take it out. OUT."
Vitya gazes up at him, desperate and flustered and still flushed from orgasm.
"But—Yura. The physician said—"
"OUT."
For a long moment, the room is quiet, and then Vitya starts turning the key. It
takes Yuri a few breaths to realize that it's turning back, closing up the egg
inside him again. He starts breathing, too shallow and too fast, holding
himself so still. As soon as the egg is out, he pushes away from Vitya so
forcefully he nearly falls out of the bed. He wants to fall out of his body.
"Yura," Vitya says. Is saying. "Yura, Yura, I'm sorry. Are you hurt? Did I hurt
you?"
How is this, after everything, what's undone him? He can't seem to stop the
wrenching, gulping sobs that shake his body. When Vitya tries to soothe him,
Yuri shoves him away. He doesn't want Vitya, he doesn't want Katya, he doesn't
want Olga—he wants Nurse to heat him up some warm milk and tell him one of her
rambling fairy stories, he wants Grandfather to sit by him and read from the
day's paper. Everything he wants, he can never have again.
"Yura," Vitya says a little later. "Can you drink some water for me? Your head
will ache if you don't."
Yuri doesn't say anything, but he sits up to take the glass. He's wobbly all
over, sticky and hot, and his mouth is dry. He drinks the whole glass in a long
swallow and lets Vitya take it away so he can lie back down.
Afterward, Vitya brings back a cool washcloth for Yuri's face. Yuri lets
himself be cleaned up and then carefully tucked beneath the sheets. He's not
even upset anymore, just tired. When Vitya reaches over to stroke Yuri's
crumpled hair, Yuri doesn't stop him.
Chapter End Notes
     (as they say, it's always darkest before the dawn)
***** Chapter 10 *****
"Not today," someone murmurs. Vitya, it's Vitya. "Make some excuse for me to
Father, I'll meet with with him tonight."
"Should I say you're unwell?" Sergey says quietly.
Vitya hesitates. "No."
Yuri is still half-asleep, tangled in the covers. He can still feel the scrape
of the egg's golden petals in his sex. His bladder is full, but his head
doesn't hurt. He doesn't want to get up.
"Tell Lilia Petrovna there will be no lessons today. And—ask Mama if I can take
tea with him."
"Shall I have breakfast brought in?"
"Yes." Vitya sighs. "Thank you."
The door opens and closes; then the bed dips. Yuri braces himself for Vitya's
touch, but it doesn't come. There's only the heat of Vitya's body next to his,
the steady rush of Vitya's breath. Instead of lulling him back to sleep, the
sound pulls Yuri to full awareness. He turns in bed, winding the sheets further
around his legs, wanting—something.
Vitya is lying on his back, his head turned to Yuri, looking at him with those
bright blue eyes. He looks tired. The nightshirt he's wearing is loose, high-
necked, leaving only his hands and head exposed above the covers.
Yuri reaches out and touches Vitya's sleeve—it's smooth cotton, of course, as
fine as anything in Yuri's wardrobe if closer-woven. He doesn't know what to
say. Vitya touches Yuri all the time whether Yuri cares for it or not; Yuri
hardly has space to reach out in turn.
"You can stay in bed all day if you want," Vitya says finally. "Or—in your own
room. I'll have meals brought to you. I'll—whatever you want, Yura."
After a moment, Yuri says, "You can't give me what I want."
"I hoped I could give you other things to desire," Vitya says.
Yuri draws his hand down Vitya's arm to find his wrist, buried beneath the
covers. He wraps his fingers around the cuff of Vitya's nightshirt, palm
brushing the soft skin of Vitya's hand. No—not entirely soft. There are
calluses from riding and a small scar on the back of Vitya's hand. Yuri's never
seen it, but he can feel it when he rubs his thumb across the raised skin.
"When did they tell you about it?" he says. "What they did to me, to save me
for you. The string."
Vitya doesn't look away. "I was older. My mother told me."
"Did they do it to him?" Yuri's voice is steady, somehow.
"No," Vitya says. "It's—it's a local custom."
"Can you feel it when you take me?"
Vitya shakes his head.
Yuri takes Vitya's hand and draws it toward him, nudges aside his soft cock to
bring Vitya's fingers to the lips of his sex. He guides Vitya's fingers over
where he was pierced, the marks that have finally healed. "They did it again
each year. On my birthday. For you," Yuri says. "It hurt every time."
"I hurt you last night," Vitya says.
"You hurt me before," Yuri says. "You didn't care then."
Vitya takes a shaky breath. "I didn't mean to. I didn't want to—"
"You don't get everything you want," Yuri says sharply, pulling Vitya's hand
away from his sex. He leaves their fingers twined together. "I have to carry
your child, don't I?"
"Do you not want to?" Vitya says.
"Does it matter?"
How is Yuri supposed to know what he wants now? He was a child until blood
soaked the string that bound him through. He's a pawn to Vanya and Lilia, who
want to mold him into the wife Vitya needs, a playmate to Mila, an amusement to
Baba. The servants know more about what he likes than his own husband. When
Vitya's seed takes root in him, he'll at least have served the purpose he was
brought here for.
Yuri lets go of Vitya's hand. "My mother died having me."
"It'll be safe for you," Vitya says. "We have good physicians, it'll be
different."
"Maybe," Yuri says. His bladder twinges. As much as he wants to, he can't stay
here forever in this moment, which feels like the first time he's managed to
catch his breath since he left his home. He touches Vitya's arm again before he
climbs out of bed and pulls on the robe he wore last night.  "Stay here."
After Yuri relieves himself, he washes his hands and face. He looks no
different in the mirror than he does any morning, but there's a strange sense
of purpose thrumming beneath his skin. When he slides open the door to the
bathroom, he sees Vitya just as he left him, serious-eyed in his nightshirt,
gazing at the door. The sun is rising outside; it lights the strands of Vitya's
silver hair as if they were precious metal.
"I know what we have to do," Yuri says as he unties the belt of his robe. "It
doesn't matter."
"It matters to me," Vitya says.
He doesn't protest, though, when Yuri unfastens the buttons at the throat of
his nightshirt, loosens the cuffs, and pulls it free. When Yuri pours oil into
his own palm—spilling a little on the floor, but no matter—and cautiously
lowers his hand to Vitya's cock. He's too shy to touch himself in front of
Vitya, but he should be loose enough from last night. The oil is slick enough
that Yuri's hand slips off Vitya's soft cock on the first stroke. He adjusts
his grip as Vitya stares at him.
"You don't have to," Vitya says. "I don't want—if it hurts you. Yura."
Vitya's cock feels much like Yuri's own, only larger and heavier as it grows in
his palm. He runs his finger around the skin at the top until it slips back,
exposing the crown as Vitya swells. It's funny how Vitya's been inside him so
many times, but Yuri's hardly touched Vitya before.
Clumsily, Yuri wipes his hand on the sheets before he climbs into the bed, and
then on top of Vitya. It's more complicated than he expected to get their
bodies aligned. Yuri spends a few seconds dragging the tip of Vitya's cock
between the lips of his sex before he finds the opening, and longer trying to
find the angle that won't make Vitya slip out. Vitya only pants silently, his
gaze flicking between Yuri's face and his cock in Yuri's hand. He gasps when
Yuri sinks down on him and screws up his face as if it pains him.
"Am I doing it wrong?" Yuri says.
Vitya's so quiet. He shakes his head, then clears his throat. "No. No,
you're—it's—it's right."
It only hurts a little, like this, and Vitya's so slippery with oil that Yuri
hardly feels him at first. He takes himself with Vitya's cock with deliberate
care, slowly and unevenly, mesmerized by how undone Vitya has become. Maybe he
doesn't know Vitya at all. Not this Vitya, anyway, squirming and softly moaning
beneath him, thrusting up to meet Yuri as Yuri bears down. Vitya's breathing
gets fast, half-choked, and then his back bows, arching up for half a dozen
thrusts before he fills Yuri with his seed.
Yuri gingerly pulls off and slides to the side, fumbling for a pillow to put
beneath his hips. He can do that much. Vitya is flushed pink to the tips of his
ears, quivering, his eyes closed. "Are you sure?" Yuri says.
There's a long pause before Vitya says, "What?"
"That I didn't do it wrong."
Vitya reaches out without looking, his hand searching through sheets until he
finds Yuri's thigh. "Certain."
===============================================================================
In the end, Vitya can't escape his morning commitments to the Tsar. Yuri eats
breakfast in Vitya's bed alone and enjoys the luxury of getting crumbs in the
sheets. He naps for a little longer before Olga comes in and retrieves him for
his bath.
"You've made a mess of your hair, Yuri Andreyevich," she says, unamused. "I'll
have to wash it."
"I'm sorry," Yuri says, not at all contrite.
So Yuri spends the morning sitting by the fire while his hair dries, finishing
his travelogue on the Chersonese. Olga dresses him for tea afterward in the
peach silk with frilled lace that he's grown fond of, pairing the diamonds in
his ears with pearls. "Your husband will join you in the sitting room for tea
when he's ready," she says as she adjusts the simple braided crown she's chosen
for Yuri's hair today, securing one end with a hairpin that ends in a spray of
pearl teardrops.
With his book finished, Yuri has nothing left for entertainment. He only means
to grab the first volume of Tokaidochu Hizakurige from the shelves when he
rests his hand on the just-ajar library door; he's not expecting to eavesdrop.
"Just because you and Papa are not—"
"We are partners," Vanya says. "Which is harder to come by than a lover, as you
should well know."
Vitya exhales loudly.
"He's young, Vitenka. You can't expect him to keep pace with you."
"I don't care," Vitya says. "I want him to be happy here with me."
A long pause follows; Yuri can't help but peer through the slender opening of
the door. Vanya and Vitya are on the couch together—Yuri's couch—and Vanya has
Vitya pulled toward him, his hand on Vitya's cheek, Vitya's head on Vanya's
chest. "My sweet boy," Vanya says. "I wish I could give you everything you
want. You know better, though."
Vitya straightens, shrugging his jacket into place on his shoulders. "I know."
Vanya carefully smoothes out Vitya's hair, separating the silver strands at the
part. Abruptly, he frowns at the books stacked on the side table—Yuri's books.
"Vitya, have you been taking from your father's library?"
"I asked!" Vitya says.
"Ilyusha has been looking for Tavernier’s travelogue for weeks," Vanya says.
"His secretary just replaced his copy. Vitya! Are you training Yura for foreign
service? After what he did to that poor prince."
"He likes reading them!"
Vanya huffs. "Then buy him his own copies instead of pilfering from your
father. For the amount of time I spend listening to Ilyusha complaining about
how he can't find some volume or other—"
"Mama."
"Vitya."
"Mama."
Yuri steps away from the door and leaves them to their bickering. He can't
quite wrap his head around it—that the Tsar's books are his? No, it's the other
way around, and Vitya took them. From the Tsar. And then there's everything
else that came before that discussion.
When Vanya and Vitya emerge from the library, Yuri is demurely seated at the
table beside the samovar. He rises as Vanya enters the room, as protocol
requires. "Will you join us for tea, Vanya?"
"I have other obligations," Vanya says, his usual stern demeanor in place. If
Yuri hadn't seen how tenderly he held Vitya minutes ago, Yuri wouldn't have
believed it. "Thank you for the invitation, Yura."
Vitya kisses his mother on the cheek at the door. "Have a good afternoon,
Mama."
"Return your father's books, Vitya," Vanya says in reply.
After weeks of drilling by Lilia, Yuri can serve tea as competently as any
other noble hostess, if not with any special flair. He pours Vitya's cup, then
his own, diluted to the precise shade of brown appropriate for the occasion.
"What books are those?" he asks, trying to sound disinterested.
"Ah," Vitya says. "The travel books, the ones you like—I borrowed them."
Yuri takes a cookie from the array of treats. "So you'll have to buy me more."
"I suppose," Vitya says. He gives Yuri a tentative smile.
===============================================================================
Time doesn't stop just for Yuri to digest what's happened. There's a palace
ball to be held the night after Theophany and a masquerade a week later at
Baba's imperial residence—and those are only the ones Yuri cannot be excused
from. Each requires its own elaborate costume and negotiation with Vanya about
which of the imperial jewels are appropriate for the occasion. Yuri still
hasn't been introduced to almost anyone outside the imperial family. His duties
as Tsarevna hover ominously in the future.
Mila insists on showing off her costume for the masquerade in advance. "I'm
going to be a kingfisher," she says, flinging open the doors of her massive
closet. "Look at this, Yura! I've a whole mask, and wings that move with me!
And the skirt is three colors of organza!"
"Won't you hit someone with those if you're dancing?" Yuri can't help but touch
the wings, testing the articulation before he runs his fingers through the dyed
fur above the stiff muslin feathers.
Mila rolls her eyes. "Don't be so practical, you sound like Mama. Oh, and
you've never been to a masquerade before, have you? You'll love it, Yura."
"I'm sure it will be a spectacle."
"Oh, the costumes are lovely, but—" Mila lowers her voice. "The real fun is
seeing what people are like with a mask on. Don't you get bored with everyone
going 'Tsarevna this, Tsarevna that'?"
Yuri frowns. "I'm hardly used to it."
"Well, it's very boring. You will get bored." Mila sighs. "So what is your
costume?"
"Hmm," Yuri says, teasing. "You'll have to wait and see."
***** Chapter 11 *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
[Yuri and Vitya in full russian court dress - an ornately embroidered dress for
                    Yuri and a military uniform for vitya]
                  commissioned from the wonderful sidhedraws
===============================================================================
"Hold on to my hand," Mila says sternly. "I don't want you to get lost."
The ballroom is a crush, even as early as eleven o'clock. Mila's wings smack
into Yuri's side as she drags him into the room. Behind them, Georgi is a
gloomy shadow of a chaperone. This is the first time Yuri's been out on his
own—or as close to his own as he can be—in his life, and he's not sure yet
whether he likes it.
Somewhere in the press of bodies, Vitya is here, and Vanya and the Tsar, too.
But this is the largest ballroom outside the palace in the city, and Yuri isn't
sure whether he'd recognize them if he found them. Mila's kingfisher is hardly
the most outrageous costume in the room; already, Yuri's seen Father Time
(clock and all), a classic Harlequin, and a woman dressed in filmy chiffon and
the distinguished mask of a mummy. His own tiger seems paltry by comparison, a
simple domino paired with clawed mitts and tail of dyed mink. Mila's silk-
gloved hand is hard to grip, but she has her fingers tightly wrapped in his,
careless of their sharp tips.
"We've missed the polonaise," she says, pleased and breathless when they emerge
on the far side of the crush. "Oh, are you going to haunt us like a vodyanoy,
cousin?"
Georgi sighs. "I'm a frog."
"So you'll haunt us like a frog, is that what you're saying?"
"Yu—he's never been out before." Georgi looks at Yuri pointedly. "I'm
responsible for—our little cousin."
"I'm not little," Yuri says.
"Shhhh," Mila says, bringing her finger to his lips. "Be careful. Don't ruin
our fun."
Masked, the imperial family is as anonymous as the rest of the nobles on the
dance floor. Mila's copper hair is hidden beneath her crest and feathers; a
dozen ladies in Saint Petersburg are as petite and blonde as Yuri; Georgi's
only distinguishing feature is his stature. When Yuri glances around them,
their neighbor in her chandelier gown that drips with real crystal doesn't
bother to disguise her stare. "Fine," Yuri hisses. "Are we going to dance or
not?"
Mila accepts the first gentleman—well, in this case, the first fox—who offers,
and Yuri follows Georgi's lead onto the dance floor for the French quadrille.
Opposite Georgi and Yuri are a chiton-clad Dionysus and a lace-ruffed lion; to
one side is an armored knight and a rosy-gloved Dawn, to the other the mummy
and a winged butterfly in a tunic and loose trousers of royal purple. All of
them prove to be passable dancers, but the butterfly is the most enthusiastic,
trousers and wings fluttering every time he swings his partner around. At the
end of the dance, he approaches Yuri and says, "Have you a partner for the
mazurka?"
"Go on," says Georgi with an encouraging smile.
Yuri says, "I suppose I haven't, then."
"Excellent," the butterfly says, holding out his hand. "The mazurka is the best
dance. You know, they say that's when the young fall in love."
"What?" Yuri says, but the butterfly only laughs gaily and tosses his long
silver hair. Oh.
The exuberant mazurka is the perfect dance for Baba, who is as skilled a lead
as Vitya and as energetic as Mila. Yuri can't help but glance at Baba's
trousers as they move through the dance. His own heavy skirts weigh on him. How
long will he have to wait to have the same freedom?
By the time the mazurka comes to a close, Yuri's long since lost sight of Mila
or Georgi. Baba kisses Yuri on the cheek—the cheek of his mask. "Yurachka, my
tiger," he says affectionately. "What a joy you are. Have you found your prince
yet?"
"What?" Yuri says, but Baba's already moving away, laughing, the silken trail
of his wings fluttering in his wake. Behind him, a servant follows holding—oh
dear, that's Shura dressed as a caterpillar.
Yuri is winded from dancing and his slippers are beginning to pinch his feet.
He makes his way to the punch table and lets a servant ladle a glass of the
fizzy pink liquid for him. He sips his drink through most of the following
quadrille, hanging back by one of the tall windows that runs nearly the height
of the room.
No one here can mock him for asking the Prince of Yaponskaya to dance, and
who's to know if Prince Yuuri is even in attendance himself? Beneath their
masks, faces hidden, the hierarchy of rank and title is obscured. The same
restless urge wells up in him, as if spoiling for a fight. Only there's no easy
target here and no pleasure in needling Vitya with arbitrarily-bestowed favor.
Yuri swallows down the itch with a swig of punch and coughs at his overzealous
consumption.
He could pick more wisely than the Prince tonight. He can choose anyone he
desires to approach and if he makes a fool of himself, who's to know but for
Georgi or Mila? Both of them are already consumed in their own flirtations with
the freedom to cast off name and crown.
Yuri drains his glass.
Perhaps it’s the masks that make motion and attitude so much more clear. The
jackal by the orchestra brings everyone to laughter with her jerky, exaggerated
theatrics, while the cherry-blossom tree uses stillness and poise to attract a
gaggle around him. Baba spins and socializes with such flighty grace that not
even trousers can conceal his identity for longer than a song.
Yet, to Yuri's eye, the dragon is most beguiling. He’s a skilled dancer, but so
are many others here; he commands attention with every flourish, but his moves
are as playful as they are precise. As the dragon moves between partners
throughout the quadrille, he treats each with the same courtesy as the last, no
matter their skill or grace. He seems quite booked up, judging by the alacrity
with which he changes partners at each dance, but at last Yuri catches the
inquiring tip of the dragon's head as he looks for his next.
"I'll be your partner, dragon," Yuri says, approaching him. Certainly, no lady
ought to be asking anyone to dance, but he's growing tired of playing one.
"Will you have me?"
"To think I imagined myself begging for your favor," the dragon says, lifting
one of Yuri's hands and kissing it with his shadow as he bows.
The next dance is a stultifying pas-de-quatre that's paced so slowly Yuri
nearly trips over his feet; he's had more than enough punch. Yet even this
humble dance is enlivened by the dragon, who holds Yuri closer than seems
proper as they alternately spin and promenade while circumnavigating the
dancefloor. Up close, the dragon's mask is less forbidding than alluring,
golden-horned and darkly furred. Yuri wants to put his hand on it. Instead, he
leaves his paws securely in the dragon's silken gloves.
The dragon makes no move to release Yuri when the song draws to a close. "Will
you waltz with me, little tiger?"
"I'm not little," Yuri says, prickling; then the dragon's words sink in and he
deflates. "I've promised the waltz to my husband, I'm sorry."
"You couldn't spare just one for me?"
Yuri hesitates. "No."
The dragon leans yet closer. "I don't think your husband will mind."
Yuri tries to tug his hand away, but the dragon holds him fast. "I'm sure he
will."
"Only a dragon would so carefully guard his treasure."
By now, he's close enough that Yuri can catch his scent—familiar, oddly—citrus
and cedar—and then Yuri freezes just as the musicians strike up the next song.
"Treasure?"
"Trust me, tiger," the dragon says as he shifts their clasped hands into
position.
Any hesitation leaves Yuri's body as he glides across the floor, swept up in
the dragon's wake, the tips of his furred shoes barely lighting on the boards.
Each movement is fluid and easy. The dragon pivots and Yuri follows like a
planet in orbit.
"You're smiling," the dragon says.
Yuri huffs. "Like you can see out of that big head of yours."
When the waltz comes to a stop, Yuri is reluctant to let go even as the dragon
releases his hand. "You must have other partners waiting," Yuri says at last.
The dragon shakes his head. "You do, though, tiger." He nods to the whirl of
blue approaching them—oh, it's Mila. "Goodnight, treasure." He bows low over
Yuri's hand once more before he steps away, into the crowd.
Mila is at Yuri's side a moment later, relieving him of an opportunity for
reflection. "You'll be my partner for the mazurka, won't you?" she says. "I
want to lead."
"Princess Baranovskaya would think that's scandalous."
Inside her mask, Mila laughs. "This is the perfect party for a scandal."
So Yuri lets Mila lead him through a riotous mazurka, her wings smacking into
his side and brushing the floor when she kneels for Yuri to promenade around.
The other pairs in their set can't stop whispering to each other as Mila
partners with all three of the ornately-costumed women in turn through the
dance. Plenty of eyes are on them as the dance draws to a close, but the only
gaze Yuri meets is the dragon's.
===============================================================================
As soon as Georgi draws the curtains in their carriage, Mila pulls off her
bird's-head mask, red-faced and panting with her hair slicked down with sweat.
"That was amazing," she says rapturously. "I wish every ball could be a
masquerade. Do you think Mama would let us host one?"
"The palace has already set every ball for the season, you know that." Georgi
pushes his own mask up onto his forehead. "That was quite the stunt you
pulled."
"Next year, then," Mila says. "I wish I was as old as Baba already. I wish I
could host."
"Someday you'll be married," Georgi says consolingly. "Then you can—"
Mila rolls her eyes. "Stop it, you're no fun."
Yuri leaves his own mask on as they bicker with each other. The carriage starts
and stops in the flood of traffic, jolting them in their seats intermittently,
so he doesn't lean his head against the glass. It's funny how easily they talk
about it—marriage, as if it were abstract, something that just happens for
people. People who get to throw parties and dance with whomever they want.
Mila's hands gesture animatedly as she talks, her face still flushed and eyes
bright with happiness and fizzy punch.
"You could host a ball, Yura," she says. "I bet Mama would let you."
"No," Yuri says.
"But—"
Georgi says, "Mila." The two of them share a long glance that Yuri can't read.
Finally, Mila sighs. "You know, Yura, someday you'll be as old as Baba. Then
you'll be able to do whatever you want. You can carry around a little dog and
name him after Vitya and dance with ladies at parties, and wear the best tiara,
and I'll never be able to do that unless I'm dressed like an animal."
"I saw someone dressed as a tree," Yuri says.
Mila shakes her head. "I could never do that, I'd have to wear pants." She
pauses for a moment. "Oh, I could wear pants."
"Don't encourage her," Georgi says with a groan.
===============================================================================
Yuri is home before Vitya. He takes a quick bath to clean off the sweat from
the dance floor, careful to keep his hair from getting wet, and then Olga
brushes it out for him, smoothing out the tangles and waves from the ornate
updo he wore tonight. "Make sure to put my mitts somewhere safe. And the mask—I
don't want to get rid of it."
"I'll take care of them, Yuri Andreyevich," Olga says, sounding amused. "For
when you want to be fearsome."
"I am fearsome," Yuri says.
Olga just smiles.
Yuri's nightgown is new—the softest cotton he's ever worn, the sleeves and
bodice adorned with heavy floral whitework. The peignoir Olga chooses for him
is more familiar, heavy silk satin that makes him feel gently cocooned as he
sits by the fire. Most nights, Yuri is fast asleep in Vitya's bed by now, but
he can't bring himself to nap in his own with the energy of tonight's revelry
still thrumming in him. He startles when Olga comes to him and says, "Your
husband has asked for you, Yuri Andreyevich."
"Yes," he says. "Of course."
Vitya is reading in bed, showing no traces of the evening's festivities. "Come
here, darling," he says. "Yura. I have a poem for you."
"Is that what you're always reading?" Yuri says as he drapes his peignoir over
the chair. He leaves his nightgown on as he approaches the bed and climbs in.
"Poetry?"
Vitya sighs. "No. Sometimes."
Yuri pulls the covers over himself and closes his eyes. "Read it to me, then."
"But when the dusk begins to creep, from tree to tree, from door to door, the
jungle tiger wakes from sleep, and utters his authentic roar.," Vitya reads in
English. "It bursts the night and shakes the stars, till one breaks blazing
from the sky; then listen! If to meet it soars, your heart's reverberating
cry..." It's strange to hear him speak in an English accent—imparted by a
tutor, maybe. The words begin to soften after a while, blurring into sound
instead of sense. Finally, Vitya clears his throat. "What did you think of
that?"
Yuri swallows a yawn. "I love tigers."
"Of course you do." Vitya reaches over to stroke Yuri's hair. "You're like a
cat. My surly kitten."
"Don't call me that."
"My tiger, then."
Yuri doesn't say anything to that. He does loosen the collar of his nightgown,
though, and draw it over his head. At the end of the day, all of the costumes
come off. Yuri is just Yuri, and he has a duty he can't escape. Maybe it
doesn't feel like a duty to Vitya, or maybe he's so used to duty that it feels
easy, like no burden at all.
"Take your tiger, then," Yuri says.
Vitya puts aside his book and slips off his robe. He hesitates before he comes
to Yuri, as he has each night since he put the egg inside him. "You are very
fierce," he says before he kisses Yuri, first on the mouth and then at the
corner of his jaw, just below his ear. "Fierce and divine."
Yuri shivers. He tilts his head and lets Vitya kiss him down to his shoulder.
Vitya oils his fingers, after, and works them into Yuri slowly before he eases
his cock inside. He's as gentle and deliberate as he was before Yuri's blood
came, but something indefinable has changed. Yuri meets Vitya's eyes as Vitya
moves inside him and opens his thighs, lets Vitya go deeper. What would it be
like, if the dragon were taking him? If Vitya weren't trying so hard?
"Yura," Vitya says. He always says Yuri's name. "Yura, my darling, I'm—" He
fills Yuri up in a long shudder, driving into Yuri, trembling.
As they lie together afterward, Yuri puts a hand in Vitya's hair. It's softer
than he expected. Tentatively, he pets Vitya's head, running his fingers
through the silver stands. Vitya curls up beside him, putting his head on
Yuri's chest. After a few minutes, he slumps against Yuri's side as if all the
strength has left him. Yuri keeps stroking Vitya's hair until his dragon falls
asleep.
Chapter End Notes
     The poem Vitya reads to Yuri is the end of "Tiger" by A.D. Hope.
     (Which is, unfortunately, anachronistic, but Noms vetoed strudel's
     questionable pastiche in the style of Swinburne.)
***** Chapter 12 *****
The next time, Yuri's blood is a drying smear along the side of Vitya's leg in
the morning. "No," he says as he lowers his hand between his legs, already
knowing what he'll find mixed with last night's oil and seed. His fingers come
back glossy red. "Vitya, I'm—"
Vitya blinks the rest of the way out of sleep. His mouth thins and then gentles
as he sees Yuri's fingers. "My Yura," he says, taking Yuri's hand in his,
careless of the mess. "Yura, it's all right."
Yuri pulls away and rolls to the edge of the bed, nearly falling off in his
haste to get away. Last night's gown is on the floor; he ignores it in favor of
the ruffled peignoir that's just this side of sheer. The ruffles flutter over
his shoulder as he throws it on, clutches it shut over his chest, and strides
over to the door.
===============================================================================
"It was there that we saw the baby tiger solemnly spreading its mouth and
trying to roar like its majestic mother. It swaggered, scowling, back and forth
on its short legs just as it had seen her do on her long ones, and now and then
snarling viciously, exposing its teeth, with a threatening lift of its upper
lip and bristling moustache; and when it thought it was impressing the
visitors, it would spread its mouth wide and do that screechy cry which it
meant for a roar, but which did not deceive."
By afternoon, Yuri is growing bored with languishing in bed. As uncomfortable
as he is, he's getting out of the habit of leisure and accustomed to scheduled
days. Not even tigers are holding his attention. "Do you want to take tea in
bed?" Olga says when she sees him staring idly at the ceiling. "Perhaps the
library?"
"Yes, the library." Yuri sighs. "I suppose I have to get dressed, then."
The tea gown Olga chooses has a golden sheath covered by a deep purple cape
with floral embroidery around the shoulders, and even though he's barely going
halfway down the hall, she pins an opal brooch to his bodice. Yuri settles onto
the chaise and kicks off his slippers as soon as Olga leaves the room. He
scrunches his feet in his silk stockings, picks up his book, and stares at
where he left off until the words swim.
"Makka, no—"
The heavy door swings into the room and Yuri has no warning before Vitya's dog
bounds inside. Yuri instinctively draws his legs up, but this only exposes his
feet to the beast. Makkachin happily licks Yuri's stockinged soles until Vitya
manages to catch him by the collar.
Yuri's stockings are already growing cool and clammy. "Take them off," he says,
or shrieks, maybe. "They're gross, I want them off."
"Just a moment, darling, I'm—Makka! What do you think you're doing?"
Makkachin breaks free again, but this time he merely trots over to one of the
chairs and hops up into it, presumably to better survey the chaos he's caused.
"Take them off, then!" Yuri screws up his face. "They feel so—"
Vitya is panting. "What, Yura? Take what off?"
"My stockings."
Makkachin licks his paws. Vitya glances between his dog and Yuri, frowning.
"Ah," he says. "Yes, yes I can."
It's not so simple when Yuri's dressed like this. Yuri can't bend over, even
with his stays so loosely laced, he's afraid to move too much lest he shift the
linens between his legs out of place, and the skirts of his gown and petticoats
are heavy and thick.
Carefully, Vitya lifts them out of the way, then pushes up the legs of Yuri's
drawers until the clips of his garters are exposed. He releases the clips and
rolls the offending stockings down Yuri's calves. "There," Vitya says as he
puts the rest of Yuri's clothing back into array. "You are spared those dread
garments." Then he cups Yuri's heel in one of his hands and draws up his foot
as if it were Yuri's hand to bestow a single kiss to the bridge. "How else may
I serve you, my wife?"
For a moment, Yuri is furiously angry at—what? The way Vitya has slipped so
easily back into his habit of flattery and charm, as if they don't even know
each other? How Vitya is so easily able to do things for Yuri that Yuri can't
even do for himself? The flush of anger doesn't evaporate, but it has nowhere
to go, so Yuri merely picks up his book and says. "I'm fine."
"Are you?"
"What did I say?"
Makkachin is making slurping noises. Oh, he's licking the velvet upholstery of
the chair. "Makka," Vitya says. "What's gotten into you?"
"Can you ask Olga for a blanket for me, please?" Yuri says.
Vitya manages to lure his beast out of the room now that the novelty of Yuri
has worn thin and soon Olga comes in with a heavy blanket and soft fur slippers
to put over Yuri's bare feet. "If you'd just kept the others on..." she says,
sounding amused.
"Well, I didn't."
"I'll bring in tea," Olga says.
Vitya returns along with her, minus his dog. "I apologize," he says to Yuri as
he settles into the less-loved chair. "How are you?"
"My feet are damp," Yuri says, although they are no such thing.
"That's not what I mean."
Yuri looks into Following the Equator to see if it holds any answers. Sadly, it
does not. "We're doing everything right, aren't we?"
"That's what the physician says."
"Then why isn't it happening?"
Vitya steeples his fingers. "He says that sometimes it takes a while."
That's what Lilia said, too, and Katya. "I don't want it to take a while. I
want it to happen."
Vitya is quiet for a moment. "You do?"
"That's what you want," Yuri says quickly. "An heir."
"A child," Vitya says.
"Same thing."
Vitya shakes his head. "No."
Olga knocks on the door, then ducks her head in. "Your imperial highness, his
majesty would like to see you in his study."
"Of course, I'll come now. My thanks."
"I'll send word, your imperial highness."
Vitya gets to his feet and comes over to Yuri on the chaise. Yuri stares up at
him, at the shadow of his face behind his silver locks. "Rest," Vitya says.
"Take care of yourself, Yura."
===============================================================================
"Can it wait until tomorrow?" Yuri says when Princess Baranovskaya appears at
her usual time the next day.
Princess Baranovskaya tsks. "I don't care whether or not I must instruct you in
your bed," she says. "The season is upon us. You can't forestall your court
duties forever."
The duties of the Tsesarevich's wife extend far beyond bearing heirs for the
empire. Yuri must attend important ceremonies and gain an understanding of
court and international politics. He'll host balls, teas, and receptions. He's
expected to choose at least a few charities to support. Vanya is a notable
patron of education in the empire; even Mila is a member of the Imperial
Philanthropic Society. Of course, he's not expected to do all of this on his
own—Yuri has his own cluster of ladies-in-waiting, handpicked by Vanya and
Princess Baranovskaya, eager to assist him.
"Perhaps you'll find friends among them," Princess Baranovskaya says.
Yuri folds his hands in his lap. "Do you think that likely?"
"It may be advantageous to you."
"Maybe," Yuri says.
The imperial family alone feels like too many people to handle. How is he
supposed to keep track of a dozen ladies-in-waiting and the numerous members of
the court? Of course, he's memorized their family trees, but that's a far cry
from juggling all of them in person. He already wants to lock himself into his
rooms at the end of the day.
"You must throw your old life away, Tsarevna," the Princess says. "None of it
will help you here."
"I know, Lilia Petrovna," Yuri says. "You don't have to keep telling me."
===============================================================================
Vitya appears in the library at tea time again, carrying a round hat box
sporting a ludicrous bow.
"What did you get me a hat for?" Yuri says, mystified, as Vitya places the box
on the table between them.
The box suspiciously rattles. Vitya smiles.
Cautiously, Yuri leans forward and tugs the box closer to him. "It is a hat?"
"Open it and see."
The ribbon is bright red and silky-soft. As soon as Yuri undoes the bow and
loosens the central knot, the ribbons fall away easily and the lid—shakes. Is
this some kind of joke? But no—it's from Vitya. Vitya doesn't joke.
Yuri lifts the lid and the kitten jumps into his lap.
"Oh!" Yuri scrambles to catch hold of it before it escapes. He gets a finger in
the loose blue bow tied around the kitten's neck—that same silky ribbon—and it
sinks its claws into his skirt, yowls, and then quiets. "Hello, kitty," he
says, stroking the pale fur on her back gently. "Hello."
"She's yours," Vitya says. "I thought you might appreciate a different kind of
company."
The kitten squirms in his lap and tightens her grip on the fabric beneath her.
Olga will be so unhappy, but Yuri can't bring himself to care. "I'm naming her
Puma Tiger Scorpion."
"A tiger for my tiger, appropriate."
"It's because she's majestic," Yuri protests. "You can call her Potya."
"It will certainly be easier to scold her when she eats my shoelaces," Vitya
says, straight-faced until he cracks under Yuri's glare and smiles. "No, no,
I'm sure she will be a model of feline deportment."
Potya has a dark face that matches her paws, blue eyes, and a fluffy tail. She
looks so angry, but Yuri would be, too, if he'd been taken away from his family
in a hat box and brought to the imperial court. At least he came in a carriage.
"You are the best kitty," he tells her. "I am going to get you a jeweled collar
and a golden water bowl and—"
"Should I be taking notes?" Vitya asks.
Yuri rolls his eyes. "This conversation is between me and my cat."
"Of course," Vitya says.
The tea cart arrives shortly thereafter. Yuri serves Potya cream directly from
his saucer as neither Vanya nor Princess Baranovskaya are around to correct
him. One day he, too, will be Dowager Tsaritsa, and then he'll be able to feed
his cat anywhere and anyway he pleases. For the first time, the thought of his
future excites him.
===============================================================================
When Yuri returns to Vitya's bed after his bleeding stops, he knows what he has
to do. Vitya is the one who's nervous. "I don't like hurting you," Vitya says,
pointedly looking away from the clockwork egg on the nightstand. "You know
that, Yura."
Yuri says, "I don't care, though." If he starts thinking about what hurts, and
where, and why—he just can't. There's only one way to make it end—to carry
Vitya's child, to ensure the future of the empire. He unties the neck of his
nightgown and then pulls it over his head gracelessly. He knows what they have
to do. So does Vitya, for all that his attack of conscience is stalling them
now.
"But you know that I don't—"
"Just give it to me," Yuri says. "Stop whining. I'll do it." He takes it from
the nightstand himself, metal chill from the cool air. He hasn't seen it since
that first time, so he tests the cruel mechanism, turning the key to the right
until the egg blooms outward, expanding its curved walls to create what will be
a firm seal inside Yuri.
Vitya bites his lip, watching Yuri play with the egg as if it were a toy. "We
don't have to leave it in overnight, Yura."
The egg fits neatly between the lips of Yuri's sex but penetrates no further.
Wait, oil--Yuri's forgetting. He tips some out from the bottle onto his palm
and flushes. He's never touched himself inside before, not the way that Vitya
does. But he has to, so he works a slick finger in carefully, then coats the
egg with the rest left on his hand. His sex feels hot and tight inside, like
he's shoved a finger all the way into the back of his mouth.
Vitya is watching him with eyes like brands. With his hand fisted on his own
cock. Yuri looks at him, disbelieving. "Don't put it in yet," Vitya says. "We
haven't even..."
"Oh." Yuri sets the slick egg on the bedside table, careless of the mess, and
turns to Vitya. Vitya's lips are wet and red, and he's somehow gone from nerves
all over to very, very focused.
"Come here," he says. "I'm going to take you, and then you can do as you want."
Vitya pushes Yuri onto his belly and takes him from behind, which is
sufficiently unusual that it takes Yuri a moment to realize that Vitya's doing
it so he can suck a bruise on the side of Yuri's neck. Yuri reaches back and
yanks Vitya's hair until Vitya's nose is bumping his ear. "Stop messing
around," he says. "Are you going to put an heir in me or not?"
After that, Vitya does take him in earnest—as hard and relentlessly as Yuri was
expecting. Gone is that affected gentleness he's so striven to put on. He
thrusts deep enough that his cock bumps the end of Yuri's passage and Yuri
stiffens in discomfort. "Yura," Vitya says, "Yura—" There's a choked gasp
before Yuri feels the tell-tale shudder and then the warm pulse inside.
Yuri doesn't wait for Vitya to recover before he nudges Vitya off and reaches
for the egg, which is so slippery that he nearly drops it, catching it only by
the loop at the end of the key. When he pushes it inside, little beads of
Vitya's seed ooze around the edges. Even though Yuri's just had Vitya's cock
open him up, the egg is a tight squeeze.
The expansion is as painful as Yuri remembers, but somehow it's easier with his
own fingers on the key. He knows just when the shell of the egg will unfurl,
how fast it will respond to the turn of the stem. He knows to expect the
progression of dull to acute discomfort and where along the scale it will end.
He pants and shakes and turns the key until it the egg is as open as he can
bear.
Vitya is staring at him again. "Yura."
Yuri wants to say, yes, that's my name, were you dropped on the head as a
child? But he can't speak. It's all he can do to breathe as he sits with the
egg inside him, cloistering his womb with Vitya's seed. He locks eyes with
Vitya and can't even manage a glare.
Very gently, Vitya reaches over and strokes his hair. "You're very strong," he
says. "Stronger than me, I think." A little later, wiping the tears from Yuri's
wet cheeks—"Do you want me to take it out?"
Yuri shakes his head as firmly as he can without jostling the mechanism inside
him. He's going to do this. He's going to do it right.
***** Chapter 13 *****
"Your imperial highness, may I present Countess Tatiana Vladimirovna
Bobrinsky?"
The grey-haired countess curtsies carefully in her heavy dress.
"You may," Yuri says, as he's said for the last fifty times. "Well met, Tatiana
Vladimirovna."
The countess steps to the side and curtsies again before Vitya.
"Well met, Tatiana Vladmirovna," Vitya echoes. "Health to your family."
Yuri's sex is still aching from the egg that held Vitya's seed inside as Yuri
slept; he's lost hope of remembering any of these people past their curtsy or
bow. As long as he can retain their names and patronymics long enough to say
them, he won't shame the empire.
"Your imperial highness, may I present Grand Prince Evgeni Pavlovich."
"You may," Yuri says. "Well met, Evgeni Pavlovich."
"Well met, cousin," Vitya says. "Health to your family."
Yuri glances to Vitya, blinking in surprise. Somehow he'd forgotten that some
of these people are family to Vitya, at least by blood—that there's more fruit
hanging on the imperial vine than Yuri's been informally introduced to. Evgeni
looks little like Vitya—he has a square jaw, dark eyes, and a beanpole frame.
Only his silver hair marks him as a relation.
"Your imperial highness, may I present Grand Prince Georgi Pavlovich?
Oh. Georgi must have to be introduced formally, too. "You may," Yuri says.
"Well met, cousin."
Georgi gives Yuri a surprised look, then a rare smile. Evgeni, lingering,
scowls.
"Well met, cousin," Vitya says. "Health to your family."
===============================================================================
Afterward, Yuri has to change for tea even though his stomach is growling. "You
should have eaten more this morning," says Olga, unsympathetic.
"I can barely breathe in court dress," Yuri says. "My stays are so tight—"
"Ah, now you're a proper imperial lady, Yuri Andreyevich," Olga says.
Yuri makes a face. "What, because I'm crammed into this dress?"
"Because you're complaining about it."
His stays are loosened for tea, so Yuri feels like he's walking on air by the
time he joins Vitya in their sitting room. Vitya, too, is dressed more
casually, in a suit instead of his military uniform. "Good afternoon, Yura," he
says, standing as Yuri enters.
"We've already wasted the afternoon," Yuri says. "I'm hungry."
"There you are, my wife. All day I've wondered if Lilia had spirited you away
and replaced you with a changeling."
"I can be polite," Yuri says.
"You are a consummate actor," Vitya agrees.
Silence falls as Yuri pours their tea. He hardly has to think about it
anymore—figuring out the right color in their cups, supervising as the maid
lays out a spread on the table. Yuri waits for Vitya to take the first sip from
his cup before drinking his own. This isn't acting, is it? It's a performance,
but for an audience of one.
Yuri pours a saucerful of cream and puts it on the floor. After a moment, Potya
appears from wherever she's been hiding—under the chaise, probably, or perhaps
the skirted vanity in Yuri's bedroom. "Isn't that the point?" he says. "I'm not
really like that. Like a—Tsarevna. I'm not like you."
"Do you think I'm only my title?" Vitya says, voice dipping dangerously low.
"All you do is work, ride, play with your dog. You only married me because you
had to."
"You doubt my affection for you?"
Yuri hesitates. "I don't know what you enjoy. Aside from—" He can't say it, but
he nods toward the hall, toward their bedrooms.
"I don't know what I've done for you to think of me this way."
Yuri stares at Vitya, incredulous.
"Yura."
"I'm not very likeable," Yuri points out. "Don't you pity me?"
"I loveyou," Vitya says.
"But you hardly know me," Yuri says, bewildered.
Vitya braces his elbows on his knees and puts his face in his hands. "Not for
lack of trying." He doesn't look up.
Long moments go by. This is more uncomfortable than Yuri's glimpse of Vanya
holding Vitya in the library—a sight that wasn't meant for him, anyway. Of
course, Vitya loves his mother, loves his family, loves his dog. That's evident
in everything he does with and for them, sharing casual intimacies that Yuri
never had with anyone but Grandfather. How could Vitya do what he's done to
Yuri except for his love of duty? Which must be greater, surely, than anything
Vitya feels for Yuri himself.
"Do you want more tea?" Yuri says eventually.
"No," Vitya says. "Thank you."
===============================================================================
"I heard you gave Zhenya quite the cut today," Mila says over dinner. "Gosha
said he was fuming."
Vanya sets his fork down. "Yura!"
The Tsar continues slicing his mutton without comment.
"What?" Yuri says. By now, the events of this morning are a blur.
"He greeted Gosha informally," Vitya says. "After I welcomed Zhenya the same
way. It's my fault, Mama."
"After all the training I've had Lilia Petrovna put you through—"
"It was a long day," Vitya says firmly.
Mila rolls her eyes. "Zhenya ought to get put in his place."
The Tsar clears his throat. "Mila."
"Papa."
"Until Vitya produces an heir, Zhenya is next in line to succeed," Vanya says.
"Toying with him is at best foolish."
"I'm hardly in the grave just yet," the Tsar says calmly.
Vanya's eyes narrow. This is clearly a well-trod argument. "Well, if you were,
you wouldn't have to worry about this, would you?"
"You're upsetting Yura," Vitya says.
Yuri didn't realize he'd clenched his hands quite so hard in the folds of his
dinner dress. "I didn't realize—no one said he was—"
"Surely you realize the fact that you were only introduced to Zhenya at a court
reception is a sign of great disfavor," Vanya says after a moment.
"I hate him," Mila adds.
"Yes, Milasha," the Tsar says. "We know."
===============================================================================
Olga dresses Yuri in the sheerest nightgown of cotton organdy with delicate
ruching at the wrists and throat and drapes his most ornate lace peignoir over
his shoulders. Perhaps she's picked up on Vitya's poor mood. Vitya doesn't seem
to notice Yuri's attire at all when Yuri joins him that night, however. He has
his lap desk out still, poring over a new stack of papers.
"I'm sorry for upsetting you," Yuri says.
Vitya turns over another paper. "You haven't upset me."
"You're lying."
Abruptly, Vitya lifts his head. "I don't want to talk about this now."
Yuri climbs into bed and lies there, undisturbed and then acutely aware of the
absence of Vitya's affections. He pulls the clean egg off the nightstand and
starts playing with it, opening and closing it with the key. "Why does Mila
hate your cousin so much?"
"You know the reforms Papa has made," Vitya says after a long pause. "They've
caused great unrest in the country. Either he hasn't gone far enough or he's
destroying the fabric of the empire, depending on who you talk to. My uncle
Pavel favored strengthening rather than weakening imperial power, and my cousin
Zhenya feels the same way."
"But the peasant reform was a long time ago," Yuri says, puzzled. "I wasn't
even born yet."
Vitya sets his lap desk aside. "Papa was younger than me when he became Tsar.
He didn't think about how complex it would be to change how things are done,
what the consequences would be."
"Is that what you're always working at?" Yuri says. "With all your papers,
and—"
"Did you think all these riches came without responsibility?"
"I don't know," Yuri sets the egg aside. "I don't know anything."
Vitya laughs. "Now who's lying?"
Heavy quiet stretches between them for long minutes. Yuri rests his hand on his
flat belly and thinks about the greater weight that hangs over them both. Would
it have been easier to know the reason for such urgency at the beginning, when
Vitya took him even as he bled? Yuri hardly had any understanding of what was
happening between them, let alone the workings of court. It's still hard to
compass that the stability of the empire may truly rest on whatever child they
conceive.
"What if it's a girl?" Yuri says. "Or—like me."
Vitya turns toward Yuri. "Then we'll have a child, and we'll keep trying for a
heir."
"Do it, then," Yuri says.
Vitya flushes. "I don't know if I can."
It takes Yuri a moment to parse Vitya's meaning. Cautiously, he reaches over
beneath the sheets to loosen the belt of Vitya's robe and take Vitya's soft
cock into his hand. He grips it firmly, the way he did the first time he helped
Vitya take him, and draws his fingers slowly up the silky skin of Vitya's
shaft. Vitya shudders and covers his face. How is he so undone by this, which
is nothing more than what he's done to Yuri?
Yuri says, "You can." He strokes Vitya until Vitya's cock swells into the tight
ring of his fingers, until he can feel the twitch of Vitya's hip against the
back of his hand. If Yuri kept going, he could bring Vitya to completion with
just his touch. But that's not what this is for. He lets go of Vitya's cock and
reaches over to the bottle on the side table. "See?"
Vitya blinks up at him, then turns up his palm for the oil. He works it into
Yuri, after, until even the scarred lips of Yuri's sex are slick; he's learned
how deep to push, the touches that Yuri will shy away from. Hastily, Yuri pulls
his nightgown over his head as Vitya shrugs off his robe, careless of the oily
sheen on his fingers. Then they settle into their places: Yuri on his back and
Vitya over him, finding the fissure between Yuri's thighs.
A few months ago, Yuri couldn't have imagined that he'd be so used to this,
Vitya taking him, or that it could be done so gently that there's hardly any
pain at all—until after. He parts his thighs to open himself deeper, but Vitya
hardly seems to notice. Even though Vitya's pace is slow, he's still frowning,
concentrating. Yuri lifts his hand to Vitya's cheek, then smoothes over the
wrinkle in Vitya's brow with a fingertip. "Vitya… "
Vitya shakes his head. "I'm sorry, it's just—" He falters, his hips stilling.
"I'm just…"
"I'll help," Yuri says.
He pushes his hand into Vitya's hair, then tugs Vitya's head down. At first,
Vitya resists; then he gives in and their noses nearly collide. Yuri has to
carefully turn their heads so he can find Vitya's mouth with his own. His belly
flutters with nerves, but he does it anyway—he kisses the corner of Vitya's
mouth first, and then Vitya's lips when they meet his. Vitya gasps into Yuri's
mouth. He likes this, somehow, even though Yuri is so inexpert. For some
reason, he likes Yuri.
Their mouths move against each other, wet and half-open, as Vitya moves inside
Yuri. Yuri arches up to meet Vitya, to take him in deeper. "You can," Yuri
says, and then again as the warmth of Vitya's seed swells inside him: "You can.
I believe it."
***** Chapter 14 *****
Chapter Notes
     happy birthday to Noms! <3
The days are growing longer, slowly but steadily. While it's still too cold for
Yuri to have much interest in outdoor entertainment, he finds himself more
curious about the palace, willing to explore. "I can't believe you've only seen
the family rooms, how dull," Mila says with the casual disdain of someone who
has divided her year between half-a-dozen palaces since she was an infant.
"Come on, we'll find something fun."
Mila bypasses the golden-walled reception halls, heated so warmly that it feels
like summer, and heads to the equally warm winter garden, which spans two
floors and includes plants so exotic Yuri's only read about them in his travel
books. "This is from the Dutch East Indies," he says wonderingly, touching the
front lip of a pink-mottled orchid.
"Oh, is it?" Mila says. "Come smell these roses, though. They're from France."
Yuri watches with wide eyes as she snaps a blossom free of the bush and holds
it out to Yuri. The flower is the sweetest thing he's ever smelled, like the
perfume Lilia wears but light and fresh. Mila tucks it into Yuri's hair as he
straightens, nestling the rose just over his ear. Yuri can't help but reach up
to touch it, smoothing his thumb over a silken petal as he adjusts her
placement. "How do I look?" he says. "French?"
Mila laughs. "Very.'"
They find a marble-walled drawing room next, full of outmoded furniture with
trinkets scattered over every flat surface. Mila plunks out a few bars of a
waltz on the out-of-tune harpsichord, which echoes horribly around the room.
"This is great-aunt Lyuba's drawing room. She hates Mama and never stays with
us, so I like to come in here when I don't want anyone to find me."
Yuri wraps his arms around himself. Especially after the tropical heat of the
garden— "It's very cold."
"I bring a coat," Mila says. "Or have the servants light a fire, but that's
only if I want Papa to find me."
"He seems very busy," Yuri says.
Mila plunks out a last, shrill chord before she gets up from the bench. "Not
too busy for us, though."
Georgi's rooms are only down the hall from great-aunt Lyuba's. They find him in
his study, looking very enterprising, although he's merely writing a letter by
lamplight.
"What are you lurking in here like a bat for?" Mila throws open the curtains,
leaving Georgi to wince at the influx of daylight. "It's two in the afternoon!
Why are you crawling under your desk?"
"Vlad took me out last night. I've had too much to drink."
Yuri peers at the paper scattered onto his desk, covered with illegible scrawl.
"Is this poetry?"
For some reason, this makes Mila cackle so hard she has to throw herself
dramatically onto a convenient settee.
"No," Georgi says after a long pause. "I was merely writing my beloved
Anyanka."
"Give it up, Gosha, she's getting married to that count from Spain," Mila says.
"Baba says he's not even a real count."
"What does that even mean?" Yuri sits down next to Mila. The crinolette he's
wearing today is his least favorite; he has to lower himself very slowly onto
the cushions while the frame collapses.
Mila's eyes sparkle and she leans close to loudly whisper, "He's a Bourbon-
Parma. They're pretenders."
From beneath his desk, Georgi groans. "I don't care what his title is. He's not
worthy of her."
"Poor Gosha," Mila says. "How you suffer."
===============================================================================
Back in his rooms for an hour before tea, Yuri can't find the energy to do more
than lie on his bed while Olga lays out an afternoon dress of ice-blue satin
and gold-and-blue brocade. "I don't want to change," he says. "I don't feel
well."
Olga comes over to feel his forehead, the way Nurse used to. "You don't have a
fever."
"My head hurts." Yuri sighs. "Can you just loosen my stays for a while? And
draw the curtains?"
He always forgets that loosened stays aren't necessarily more comfortable. The
stiff sides of his corset dig into his hips and his armpits, while the flat
bodice chafes his tender chest with every breath. Yuri turns his head toward
the wall and shades his face with his arm. He's wilting as pitifully as Georgi.
Potya leaps on the bed and worms her way between Yuri and the decorative
pillows that are scattered over the bed during the day; he sneezes when she
sticks her tail in his face. She settles next to him, purring contently, with
her warm body snugged close to his belly.
===============================================================================
Yuri revives with the application of sufficient quince jam, stirred into his
tea under Mila's impatient eye. She doses her own tea liberally while Yuri sips
from his cup and her Scotties chase each other under the table.
Vanya has stuck to a restrained spoonful of peach. "You will both attend the
ball on Saturday," he says, ignoring the commotion beneath them. "Neither Valya
nor Princess Yusupova will be in attendance, so I imagine Mila will find it
quite dull."
"Baba is betraying us," Mila says mournfully. "He's going to the Volkonskys'
ball."
Yuri says, "What a tragedy."
"You've been spending too much time together." Vanya sounds almost
affectionate.
Mila takes a slice of vatrushka from the platter. "Yura's only been my sister
for a few months. We need time to catch up."
"Yes," Vanya says. "That's true."
Yuri can't say anything at all, so he just sips his tea and tries to ignore how
guilty he feels. They're Vitya's family. They can't replace his own no matter
how hard they try. Thinking about it makes his head hurt. "Have I been
introduced to everyone who's coming?" The last few balls he's attended have
been a minefield of people whom Yuri might acknowledge or must ignore, so he
stuck close to Vitya every night and made Vitya sort it out for him.
Vanya shakes his head. "Perhaps by this time next year."
"I'm still not formally introduced to half the court." Mila makes a face. "But
I only debuted last year."
"Not everyone is worth an introduction."
Mila lets out an extravagant sigh. "Yura and Vitya are getting introduced to
everyone."
"Unfortunately," Vanya says.
One of Mila's Scotties nips at Yuri's ankle and he barely suppresses a yelp.
"You have a lot of cousins," he says when he recovers.
"They're not really cousins," Mila says. "Only Gosha and Zhenya, and little
Valechka, who you haven't met. Aunt Masha doesn't have any children and Mama's
family are all in Germaniya."
Vanya nods. "Frittie and the girls may come in the summer."
Yuri remembers enough of Vitya's family tree to know that Frittie is Friedrich,
Grand Duke of Hesse and Vanya's younger brother. The realization that he's
forgotten the names of the Grand Duchess and their children already sends him
into a panic. "There are so many of you. I only have my grandfather. I don't
know how I'll ever keep track—"
"That will come in time," Vanya says brusquely. "Your grandfather asks about
you when he writes. I tell him that you are well."
Yuri freezes. "You still write him?"
"Of course," Vanya says, as if their correspondence is nothing.
How many times has Yuri looked at the desk in the library and turned away? He
can't imagine telling Grandfather about this new life, about its trials and
impossible luxuries, about his sundered thread. When Yuri's virtue was unbound,
so was his innocence. How can he face Grandfather like this?
"Have a tea cake," Mila says into the tense silence. "They're very soft today.
I like them."
===============================================================================
Yuri spends the time before he has to dress for dinner in the library,
aimlessly flipping through the latest books Vitya has brought him—fresh from
the printer, now—but unable to concentrate. The bodice of this dress is too
tight to let out his stays any further and the ostrich feathers adorning his
collar tickle his throat. His head hurts again. Maybe he should lie down.
"There you are, Yura," Vitya says from the doorway. "I missed you this morning,
and then you were with Mama for tea."
"I was with Mila earlier," Yuri says. "She wanted to show me the winter
garden."
"I should have taken you to see it earlier."
From Vitya, the garden would have felt like yet another too-precious gift. Yuri
considers his words carefully. "You don't have to show me everything."
"Clearly," Vitya says.
Something changed after their conversation a few weeks ago, when Vitya declared
his love, as if that was something that could exist between them. Yuri wants to
ignore whatever is disturbing Vitya, but it's impossible when they are at such
close quarters, when twice a day they must come together and try for an heir.
"Am I not allowed to have friends?" he says. "Or—family?"
Vitya steps into the room and shuts the door behind them. "You don't think of
them as family."
"Mila calls me her sister."
"Of course she does," Vitya says. "That's who she wants you to be."
Try as he might, Yuri can't unravel the nuance of Vitya's words. Why can't
Vitya ever speak plainly? "I know I'm not what you wanted."
Vitya laughs, a bright bark before his face turns serious. "I only came to ask
if you wanted to eat dinner in our rooms."
"Won't we be missed?" Yuri says, frowning.
"Mama said you weren't feeling well."
Yuri presses his lips together. He said no such thing to Vanya, but of course
the servants talk. "That's fine. I don't want to dress for dinner."
"Of course," Vitya says. "Whatever you want."
===============================================================================
Olga dresses Yuri in his loosest tea gown and eventually yields to his
insistence that he go without stays. "You can't make me," he says at last. "I'm
your Tsarevna, aren't I?"
"Of course, Yuri Andreyevich," she says calmly. "I think this will go well with
your pearls, will it not?"
So Yuri ends up decked out in jewels and silk slippers, the soft folds of his
blue gown whispering around his chemise, and feeling somehow that he's lost the
argument. Vitya certainly raises an eyebrow as he holds out Yuri's chair at the
dinner table. "You look lovely," he says to Yuri's questioning gaze. "As I'm
sure you know."
"I don't dress myself," Yuri says.
"You haven't learned to accept a compliment, either, I see."
Yuri sighs. "I'm hungry."
At least, he thinks he is. Somehow everything in the magnificent feast that the
maids lay out before him tastes like ash in his mouth except for the dumplings
and celery soup. Yuri can barely stay awake through the penultimate course of
citrus duck chaud-froid for their dessert.
"You are unwell," Vitya says, catching his eye. "Perhaps you ought to rest."
"We have to—"
Vitya shakes his head. "No," he says firmly. "I won't."
Oh, Vitya won't. "Fine, then," Yuri says.
===============================================================================
Even though it's early, Olga leads Yuri down the hall to Vitya's bedroom as
soon as she's exchanged his tea gown for an equally loose nightgown. "You want
me to sleep with you?" Yuri says as he climbs into bed beside Vitya. "What if I
get you sick?"
"That's for me to worry about," Vitya says, not looking away from his lap desk.
Curious, Yuri peers over Vitya's arm to see the papers he's reviewing today. In
messy copperplate, there's an extensive description of the army's finances,
accompanied by figures with so many zeros that Yuri can hardly believe they're
real. He lowers himself onto the bed and studies Vitya, his face still handsome
even at this unflattering angle. How much is he lost in thought, how much is he
ignoring Yuri?
Yuri would have loved to be ignored months ago.
He falls asleep easily, despite his headache, and wakes only when Vitya tugs
him close. Vitya pulls Yuri's back to his chest and wraps a stiff arm around
Yuri; it's like being held by a chair. The tension in Vitya's body dissipates
after a few minutes, but his breathing has hardly slowed. He's not asleep. Yuri
lifts his hand and fumbles to find Vitya's, clumsily squeezing Vitya's fingers
for a moment before he lets go.
===============================================================================
In the morning, Yuri says, "I feel well enough again."
He likes being this sleepy when Vitya takes him, parting his thighs, working
oil into him. This morning, Yuri's not even sore from a night of holding the
egg and Vitya's seed within him. It's easy for him to help guide Vitya's cock
into his sex, to take Vitya inside, to grip Vitya's hip and hold him in place
as Vitya fills Yuri with his essence. Then there's the egg, its petals spread
to trap Vitya's seed within Yuri in hopes that it will kindle.
The dawn has not yet arrived and neither of them must rise from bed after.
Vitya draws Yuri to his side. "I'm sorry that I was unkind to you yesterday,"
Vitya says eventually. "I want you to be happy."
Yuri says, "I know."
"I just want you to be mine, too."
Yuri might be Tsarevna, but Vitya is the Nasledik Tsesarevich and his husband.
In any way that matters, Yuri belongs to him. "Aren't I?"
Vitya shakes his head and says nothing.
===============================================================================
Despite the fact they are getting regular practice at the height of the season,
Yuri and Vitya's dance lessons haven't come to an end. If anything, they've
stepped up in intensity. While Monsieur Bessy first concerned himself with
frame and foot position, he's now engaged in minute critique of every aspect of
their form. Even Vitya, who seems to Yuri to be impossibly talented, is subject
to no end of criticism.
("It's a compliment," Lilia explained to Yuri one morning. "It means that he
sees the potential for improvement."
"I see," said Yuri, who did not.)
"Off axis again," says Monsieur Bessy today, adjusting the angle of Vitya’s
head. "Your head leads your spine—if it is not in balance, the rest of you has
no hope. And you, Tsarevna—" He guides Yuri’s torso farther back, "You must be
his counterweight. Try again."
The pianist plays the opening bars of the Swan Lake waltz as Yuri scrambles to
find his place. He waits until Vitya lifts his left hand, inviting Yuri forward
into frame. As they come together, Yuri finds his balance easily. He tilts back
from Vitya, though their hips anchor against one another, and his head drips
like the head of a rose from his spine.
"Deepen your sway on the natural turn," Monsieur Bessy calls out over the
music. The pianist abruptly halts, leaving Vitya and Yuri adrift mid-turn.
"Again!"
This time, everything comes together. Vitya angles his spine and Yuri keeps his
head opposite its tilt. They pivot easily with Yuri stretching his neck towards
their motion. They fly around the room and Yuri feels lighter than he has since
he took off his tiger mask and claws. In a single step Vitya shifts their
rotation the opposite direction and they float in clockwise circles. Dancing
with Vitya feels so natural. If only everything else between them came so
easily.
"Barely acceptable," says Monsieur Bessy when they finish the song. "Show me
that you can do it again."
Afterward, Yuri is flushed and panting, feeling deeply the constraint of the
corset around his lungs. His sex stings from the hours the egg stayed inside
him this morning, removed only for their lesson. Vitya looks equally undone—as
if he came straight from their bed.
As they head back to their quarters in silence, Yuri begins to cool down, but
Vitya still seems heated. "I'm going to dress for tea," Yuri says as they enter
their quarters.
"Not just yet," Vitya says.
Vitya gets them as far as his bedroom before he reaches out and takes Yuri in
his arms, kissing him as he fumbles the door closed. He touches only Yuri's
waist, his arm; no more contact than when they danced except for the heat of
his mouth on Yuri's, which is hardly chaste. Yuri opens up to him, confused but
obliging, and lets Vitya skate his tongue over the sensitive flesh of his lip.
They don't do this in the middle of the day with servants still at work in
their quarters and mealtimes looming in the offing.
"What…" Yuri says softly when Vitya pulls away.
"I want to pleasure you, if you'll allow me." Vitya's gaze is heavy with
intent. "Tell me what you desire."
Yuri stares up at him. "I don't know."
"I'll try something," Vitya says, kneeling. "Tell me if you like it." Then he
lifts up Yuri's skirts and crawls beneath them.
Something bumps Yuri's knee a moment later. He almost laughs. "You're under one
of my petticoats, but not the other."
"How many layers do you have under here?" Vitya says, sounding frustrated. He
touches Yuri's thigh, then drops his hand to lift up Yuri's chemise, where he
fumbles at the tie to Yuri's drawers until they slide down Yuri's hips, leaving
Yuri bare.
Yuri says, "I think that's all of them."
"Mmm."
Then something hot and wet touches Yuri's sex. He jumps and bangs his knee into
Vitya's shoulder. "Warn me," he says to Vitya's muffled yelp. "What are you
doing?"
"Trying to give you something you'll enjoy."
Vitya's mouth isn't as shocking the second time. He licks at the entrance to
Yuri's sex before he pushes his tongue into the passage where this morning he
left his seed. Yuri can feel his cheeks flush. Vitya is gentle, the pressure of
his tongue light, as he alternates between lapping at Yuri's sex and thrusting
inside. It doesn't hurt. It feels—dizzying.
"Careful," Vitya says, catching Yuri when he teeters. "Back up against the
wall." He shuffles forward with Yuri until Yuri can't back up any further, his
tournure crushing against the wallpaper. "Do you like it, then?"
"I don't hate it."
"Hmm."
This time, Vitya closes his lips around Yuri's cock, as soft as when he
started. "Don't," Yuri says, nudging Vitya's shoulder purposefully this time.
"I don't like it."
"Ah, so you do like—" and Vitya's mouth is back at Yuri's sex, his lips on
Yuri's hidden lips. The sounds are so loud that Yuri flushes more, just hearing
them. He turns out his hips, parting his thighs, and scrapes his nails against
the wall for purchase. This isn't like anything else Vitya has ever done to
him.
Then Vitya stops.
"Are you—done?" Yuri says, panting.
"Tell me you want it and I'll go on," Vitya says.
Yuri doesn't want to admit to wanting anything, but he doesn't want Vitya to
stop. "I—it's fine. You can—"
Vitya puts his hand on Yuri's thigh, fingers spread broad next to Yuri's sex.
"Tell me you want it or I'll stop."
If he had to look Vitya in the eye, Yuri couldn't say it. But Vitya can't see
him—not even the parts of Yuri splayed open before Vitya beneath his skirts—and
Yuri fights down his pride enough to say, "I want it." As soon as he says it,
he's terrified that Vitya will stop anyway, having gotten his own satisfaction.
But Vitya says nothing, merely puts his face between Yuri's thighs again,
and—Yuri does enjoy this, he does like it. Yuri covers his own face with his
hands for a moment before he splays them out against the wall again as Vitya
kisses his sex. The sensation is overwhelming. He feels hot all over and he
can't think and—
—and then he's sliding down against the wall, legs akimbo, into Vitya's lap,
still trembling from whatever's overtaken him. At least Vitya looks as unsteady
as Yuri feels. Vitya's hair is mussed, his face red and sweaty, his jacket
ruinously crumpled. Yuri can't help but laugh, and once he starts, he can't
stop.
"What—Yura—" Vitya says, sputtering, but then he looks at Yuri's face and lets
out a surprisingly small giggle.
"What," Yuri says, "was that."
===============================================================================
Yuri can't look at Vitya all through dinner. He feels lax and languid, yet like
everyone must know what's passed between them with a glance. Yes, Vitya's
entire family watched the consummation of their marriage and the sundering of
Yuri's thread, but those things never belonged to Yuri. He doesn't want anyone
looking at him to know—what?
That he's felt the sting of not pain but pleasure?
Out of the corner of his eye, Yuri sees Vitya watching him. When Yuri catches
Vitya's gaze, the tips of Vitya's ears redden. Hastily, Yuri looks back toward
his cod.
"Are you still feeling unwell, Yura?" Vanya says. "You've barely touched your
food."
Oh, that's why Vanya keeps staring at him. "I'm—" Yuri hesitates. "Not hungry."
Vanya frowns. "Are you sure there's nothing that could tempt you?"
Every course at the Tsar's table is so rich, Yuri can barely manage a mouthful.
"No, thank you."
"Hmm," Vanya says. "Can you pass the butter, Mila?" For a moment, his mouth
curves with something like a smile.
***** Chapter 15 *****
Chapter Notes
     Happy birthday, Yuri!
Olga answers the knock at Yuri's bedroom door. "Princess Baranovskaya is here,"
one of the maids tells her. "Should I ask her to wait, or—"
"She'll wait," Olga says firmly.
It takes Yuri forever to get out of bed now. He has to leave in the egg for as
long as he can bear before he bathes, then get dressed, have his hair styled—it
seems to take longer every day. Princess Baranovskaya is impatient, but all of
Yuri's movements are imbued with languor, lazy steps out of bed and into the
bath, slow raises of the arms as Olga drops a chemise or a tea gown over his
head. He sits down across the breakfast table from the Princess nearly half an
hour later. She stares at him for a long moment, but says nothing.
"Good morning, Lilia Petrovna," Yuri says. "Would you like some breakfast?"
"Not at this hour," says the Princess.
At least Yuri has grown accustomed to eating under her scrutiny. The cooks have
begun to cater to his poor appetite, so he no longer returns uneaten servings
of grouse and tenderloin; he has a bowl of kvas, a small plate of pirozhki, and
a dish of sweet berries from the greenhouse. He had a cup of tea while he lay
in Vitya's bed this morning; now he follows the cup he pours for Princess
Baranovskaya with another for himself. "How is that?" he asks as she takes her
first sip.
"Nearly acceptable." Princess Baranovskaya pauses, then sits down her cup. "I
nearly forgot, with your tardiness—" She plucks a wrapped parcel off one of the
side tables. "Tsarevna. For your further instruction."
Yuri already wants to groan, just looking at the size of it. An etiquette book?
He unwraps it with a deliberate show of care. "It's beautiful," he says as the
stamped and gilded leather of the cover emerges. "It's—a Bible?"
"I doubted you had one of your own," Princess Baranovskaya says.
"That's—true," Yuri says, then, dutifully: "Thank you, Lilia Petrovna."
===============================================================================
For the last week, Yuri has napped through the whole time between Lilia's
lessons and tea, then again between tea and dinner. He can't seem to shake off
this malaise, whatever it is, so he's displeased when Olga prods him to change
for tea today. "What's wrong with my tea dress? I've only worn it once before."
"You have jam on the sleeve," Olga says, whisking it away before Yuri can
inspect it further.
Yuri's afternoon dress is rose-and-gold shot silk trimmed with Brussels lace.
"A birthday gift from his majesty the Tsaritsa," Olga says as she buttons up
the front.
"Birthday?"
Oh. It's the first of March.
In the mirror, his face looks no more familiar or foreign than the day before.
Fifteen to sixteen doesn't seem to matter much compared to the day when he
entered the Cathedral a boy and left a bride. Olga hangs Vitya's spinels around
Yuri's throat and then, for the first time, removes the diamond studs that have
remained in Yuri's ears since they were pierced. The earrings of the spinel
parure hang heavy in their place. She slides the matching ring onto the ring
finger of Yuri's bare hand; it fits perfectly.
Yuri can barely hold back a yawn.
"I haven't even done your hair, Yuri Andreyevich," Olga says as she takes down
the simple crown of braids from this morning. "It's too soon for you to tire."
She styles his hair as extravagantly as she does for a ball, with curling irons
for his stray locks and elaborate plaits. Last, she adorns the high pile of
hair on his head with two roses that must have come from the winter garden. "A
gift from Tsarevna Mila."
"Of course," Yuri says.
In addition to Princess Baranovskaya's Bible, there's an embroidered robe of
brilliant Chinese silk from Baba and a copy of Tunison’s Peerless Universal
Atlas of the World from the Tsar. Yuri keeps waiting for Olga to say, a gift
from your husband, but she never does. Meanwhile, Potya follows Yuri across the
room, yowling until one of the maids comes in with her breakfast. Maybe Vitya
has given Yuri all he intends to give. What more could Yuri ask for?
Tea is in Vanya's quarters, where Yuri has taken the meal less often as of
late. Vanya has other guests he entertains in his quarters during the
season—ranked high and low, selected with no pattern that Yuri can yet
discern—and still others he hosts in the state rooms: privy councillors,
generals, and foreign dignitaries. Today, the room is strangely quiet. Yuri's
gotten used to having dogs underfoot here.
Vanya is already seated at the table. "Happy birthday," he says, scrutinizing
Yuri for a moment before turning his attention to the maid who is setting out
an impossible array of sweets on the table. Little cakes, tea cookies, a big
torte, dishes of chocolate mousse, strawberry ice cream—Yuri's mouth waters
just looking at it.
"Thank you, Vanya," he says as he seats himself. "Who is joining us?
"Vitya," Vanya says. "I imagine he'll put a dent in this."
Yuri can't help but glance at the fourth place set at the table. "I'm sure he
will."
Vitya is noticeably late, which not even he can get away with at his mother's
tea table. Yuri is starting to get anxious on Vitya's behalf as he nibbles at
one of the petit fors with pink fondant over white cake and buttercream. Vanya
himself seems unusually oblivious to the crawl of time, having somehow become
engrossed in describing each plate in the latest issue of La Mode Illustrèe in
detail as if it weren't in the same room with them. "I'm not sure if I care for
so many prints together," Vanya says. "I never order patterned dresses for you.
They do say to dress the young simply."
"I'm sure they do," Yuri says vaguely.
"This is good practice for you, placating your elders," Vanya says, changing
tone abruptly as the door opens. "You've grown."
Yuri hardly has time to register his confusion before he hears Vitya say, "Here
we are—" and then another, familiar voice say:
"Ah, there's my Yurachka."
Forgetting all his manners, Yuri scrambles to his feet and then across the
room, hampered as he is by his light slippers and tightly-laced stays. He
flings his arms around Grandfather and buries his face against Grandfather's
boiled wool coat. "Dedushka!"
"Yes, my boy," Grandfather says, patting Yuri's back. "I'm here."
Yuri is unmade by that gentle touch. He can't stop the tears that fill his eyes
or the sobs that tear through his throat. The memory of Grandfather that Yuri's
longed for is nothing compared to having Grandfather here, steady and certain,
holding him closely. Grandfather lets Vitya lead them over to one of Vanya's
couches and, a little while later, Yuri lifts his head and realizes that he and
Grandfather are alone.
"I've mussed your hair, forgive me." Grandfather reaches up and adjusts one of
Mila's roses. Then he draws a flannel handkerchief from his pocket. "I know
this isn't as fine as what you get around here, but—"
Yuri takes it from Grandfather, dabs at his eyes, and then, taking advantage of
the absence of chaperones, loudly blows his nose. Then he laughs, absurdly. "Do
you know that ladies have to blow their noses quietly, Dedushka? I haven't done
that in months."
"I hope you haven't done so much crying," Grandfather says.
Just looking at Grandfather's kindly eyes makes Yuri want to start blubbering
again. "Not so much," he says. "I'm fine."
"Well, I thought I'd come see for myself."
Yuri wipes at his eyes. "They just… let you?"
"His imperial highness invited me," Grandfather says. He looks around, taking
in the French wallpaper, the stylish drapes, the cups of tea cooling on the
table. "I've never been here before. The Tsaritsa used to come to the house
when you were small."
"To our house?" Yuri says, aghast.
Grandfather crinkles his nose. "His majesty was polite, don't you worry,
Yurachka. This is your house now, though, isn't it?"
"Y-yes."
"So you could have invited me, couldn't you?"
Yuri can only stare at his knees. "I was embarrassed."
"Of me?"
"No! Never!" Yuri turns toward Grandfather. "It's me. I'm…"
Grandfather is quiet for a moment. "Are they unkind to you?"
If only it were that simple. "They just want me to be like them. To care
about—oh, Dedushka, so many things. I never tried to remember where silverware
went when I was supposed to be learning them, because we only ever used one of
each, and here there's so many."
"Is your husband unkind to you?" Grandfather says sternly.
"How could you do anything if he were?" Yuri says, and then: "No. I'm fine."
Grandfather sighs. He reaches over to pat Yuri's knee. "You know, they wanted
to raise you here—or with your mother's cousin's family. I did everything I
could."
Before everything—his blood, the wedding, what came after—Yuri couldn't
possibly have understood what that meant. He hugs Grandfather so tightly,
thinking about Vanya coming down to their little house, so long ago that Yuri
can't even remember. "I love you, Dedushka," Yuri says. "Thank you."
"You don't have to say thank you," Grandfather says. "You're my grandson. Of
course." He clears his throat. "You remember that when you have children of
your own, Yurachka."
"What?" Yuri flushes.
"Not to expect gratitude. Although, I do expect to hear from you more often.
There's nothing shameful about, oh, eating oysters or wearing silk stockings,
or married life, either."
"I don't want to talk about that," Yuri says hastily.
Grandfather chuckles. "What do you want to talk about, then?"
"Oh!" Yuri brightens. "Dedushka, you have to meet my cat!"
===============================================================================
Grandfather visits Yuri's sitting room—"It's very tasteful. I can tell you
didn't have any hand in decorating it, my boy."—and holds Potya, despite her
protests. He admires Yuri's collection of travel books as well as the
comfortable library chairs. Yuri nearly falls asleep on the chaise, listening
to Grandfather ramble about Ksenia and Nurse—whose newest charge is only a few
blocks from Grandfather—and one of the clerks at the railway office who was
nearly killed by an icicle a few weeks ago.
Maybe Yuri does fall asleep, because he's listening to Grandfather one moment
and being woken by Vitya the next with a gentle hand on his shoulder. "Yura,
it's nearly dinner time," Vitya says. "Would you like your grandfather to stay?
We could have dinner in here, Mama won't mind."
Yuri yawns, covering his mouth with his hand.
"I must be getting home for my own dinner, I'm afraid," Grandfather says,
getting to his feet. Potya leaps from his lap with a disgruntled meow. "Perhaps
another time."
"Yes," Vitya says.
Yuri sits up, still yawning. "I don't know why I'm so tired. I'm sorry,
Dedushka."
"I don't mind," Grandfather says. "It's good to see you well and well-rested,
instead of burning half the household's kerosene reading those books of yours
at night."
It's hard to let Grandfather go when they part at the door to Yuri's chambers.
Yuri hugs Grandfather so tightly that all of his Brussels lace probably smells
like pipe smoke, and he doesn't care at all. "You must come back soon. We can
have proper tea in here, you didn't even eat anything."
"Next time," Grandfather says. "Just write me, Yurachka. I'll always come to
you if I can."
When Vitya closes the door to the hall, Yuri wants to crawl in bed without
eating anything at all and sleep until tomorrow. His stomach betrays him,
growling. "I want to eat in our quarters anyway, I don't want to get dressed. I
don't know why I'm so tired."
Vitya catches Yuri by the waist before he can step away. "Yura. Of course you
can," Vitya says. He leans down and presses a kiss to Yuri's forehead. "Happy
birthday."
===============================================================================
With a fire roaring in the hearth as snow falls outside, Yuri finds it hard to
believe that it's nearly spring. He drinks a hot beef soup that's mostly broth
and eats half a dish of potatoes au gratin before he pushes his plate away.
Vitya puts away a truffled quail and several slices of kulebyaka. "How was your
birthday present?" he asks Yuri as two maids come in to take their dishes away.
Yuri covers his mouth to hide a yawn. "You mean Grandfather?"
Vitya nods.
"I wish you hadn't," Yuri says. "But—I'm glad he came."
"That will have satisfy me, then," Vitya says. He smiles, a small twist of his
lips; Vanya's smile.
Yuri looks away.
It's easier in bed, where Yuri doesn't have to be grateful for anything, or
think too much about what they do. He lets Vitya take him on his side, his back
to Vitya's chest, and feels guilty at his relief that Vitya can't see his face.
If only Vitya didn't want so much from Yuri; if only Vitya didn't try quite so
hard. It's not Vitya's fault that Yuri can spend months playing dress-up for
the imperial court, but not change who he is.
===============================================================================
Yuri wakes up in the middle of the night, egg winched inside him, pressing too
tightly to his bladder.
It's not fair, it's his birthday—surely the indignity of possessing a body
should pause for at least one night a year. Yuri lies in that hazy stage of
middle-of-the-night wakefulness for long minutes before the pressure becomes
urgent enough to force him from the bed. He puts on his slippers and hesitates
at the threshold of Vitya's bathroom. The water closet here is so noisy. He
doesn't want to wake Vitya like he did last night.
Katya startles in her chair when Yuri opens the door to the hall, wrapped in
just Vitya's robe. His own peignoir is too sheer to get away with it.
"Tsarevna?"
"Bathroom," Yuri says inarticulately.
He has to take the egg out first, of course, which is somehow nearly as
uncomfortable as putting it in. His legs shake as he empties himself in the
basin of his own toilet. Almost as soon as he's done, a heavy lassitude settles
on him. It takes him too long to wash his hands, to dry them, to retie Vitya's
robe. He leaves the egg in the sink.
Katya is waiting for him in his bedroom. "Can I get you anything else,
Tsarevna? Something to settle your stomach?"
"What?" Yuri says, yawning. "My stomach is fine." He rubs his hands against his
face. "I keep waking up because I have to, ah…"
"Maybe you'll have it easier than most, then," Katya says. "Do you know if your
mother was sick often when she was carrying you?"
Yuri's so tired—all this sleep, and he still feels like he never gets any rest.
It takes him a moment to understand what Katya's suggesting. "Wait, what?"
"Ah," Katya says.
Yuri sits down in one of the chairs by the fireplace. He hasn't bled
since—well, it's been more than a month, but not that long; he already feels
like he's been exhausted forever. "Do you really think so? That I'm—" He can't
even say it.
"Well, it does seem likely," Katya says. "It's very early, though."
"I don't want anybody to know about it," Yuri says, but he can see from the
look on her face that any hope of privacy is gone. "Does Vitya know?"
"How would he? Does he change your sheets?"
Yuri gets to his feet, a little unsteadily. Absurdly, all he can think about is
the egg. "Can you wash the—the thing in the sink—and put it away?"
"Of course, Tsarevna," Katya says.
For some reason, going out into the hall feels like it will take too long. Yuri
tries the knob of the connecting door between his and Vitya's rooms and finds
it unlocked. He closes it behind him loudly enough that Vitya turns over in bed
and grumbles.
No. He can't wake Vitya up.
Yuri stands in the doorway for a long time before he comes to bed. He lays down
next to Vitya, but for once, he can't sleep.
***** Chapter 16 *****
"Yura." Vitya tugs Yuri close, swinging his leg between Yuri's. "Let me take
you."
That brings Yuri right out of his fitful sleep like a shock of cold water. He
can't help but stiffen even as Vitya goes lax over his body, only half-awake,
but still ready to do his duty. Vitya's cock is swollen and flushed with the
morning's arousal, no need to be stroked or stoked with desire; slicked with
the barest hint of oil, Vitya pushes into Yuri, his breath hot against Yuri's
neck. Yuri brings his hand up to cup the base of Vitya's skull, sliding his
fingers through Vitya's soft hair. His new hope renders him mute.
"I want," Vitya says. "I want—" His voice is deep, nearly a growl.
Yuri squirms beneath him, tightening his passage around Vitya.
Vitya kisses him, then—a biting, possessive kiss, though stale from sleep. "I'm
going to put a child in—you. I promise."
Maybe it's the earnest tone of Vitya's words, or maybe the desperation, but
Yuri finds his lips parting of their own accord. "I think you have."
"Yura!" Vitya says, half pulling out, and then pushing in again, hard, in a
last few urgent thrusts before he spills his seed inside. He collapses against
Yuri and pillows his head on Yuri's shoulder, his cock falling wetly against
Yuri's thigh. For long moments, he says nothing—his mouth opens, but only for
deep, panting breaths that shake his whole body, rattling against his ribcage.
Yuri's breaths come slower, but inside, he feels equally shaken. He touches
Vitya's hair again. Something about the texture is soothing. Will their child
have hair this fine? It hardly seems real, even though Yuri can already sense
something about his body is changing. His tender chest, his indifference to
food, his drowsy days. Even now, the relief of releasing this secret is
settling over him like a soporific veil.
"Is it true?" Vitya says finally, almost disbelieving. "Tell me it's true."
"That's what Katya says. And I—feel it." Yuri sighs. "I'm so tired all time."
Vitya runs his finger along the soft inside of Yuri's arm. "You are."
"I haven't bled," Yuri says. "And I was supposed to a while ago."
Vitya wraps his arms around Yuri then, holding him almost too tightly before
gentling his grip. "I must be careful with you now," he says. "Oh, Yura. I
can't believe it."
"It's true," Yuri insists.
Vitya loosens his grip, but only to rest his hand on top of Yuri's still-flat
belly. Soon enough, it will swell, which is so strange to think about. "Can I
tell Mama?"
"No," Yuri says. "I don't want to tell anyone yet."
"You told me."
"Of course."
Somehow this makes Vitya kiss Yuri's neck, his throat, the sensitive lobe of
his ear. "Thank you," he says, drawing away. "Yura. Thank you."
===============================================================================
Nothing about today is different except the secret Yuri carries inside. Once,
the mystery of his body was hidden behind plain thread; now it's concealed
between layers of cotton and linen and silk, constrained by steel boning,
shielded by crinoline and wire coils. His gowns still fit the same, though his
nipples chafe against his chemise unless his stays are laced tight.
If Olga knows anything—she must—she doesn't say it. Only, as she adjusts them
between tea and evening gowns: "So tight, Yuri Andreyevich?"
Yuri looks her in the eye in the mirror for a long moment. "Otherwise, it
hurts—" He gestures broadly to his chest.
"Ah," she says. "I'll lace the top and bottom separately tomorrow. That will be
more comfortable for you."
While Olga is busy adjusting the fall of his skirt's swags over the crinolette
beneath them, Yuri raises a hand to the stiff front of his corset. Will he grow
here, too? He doesn't know. He doesn't know anything. "Olga—will I—will my
chest get—"
She hmms as she adjusts the drape of the amber silk. "You'll need a different
corset anyway," she says after a moment. "I'm not the best judge of all that."
===============================================================================
Even after fussing over his stays, Yuri is early to dinner in the Tsar's
quarters. He sits on the chaise in the sitting room and flips through one of
the newspapers on the table, which is at least novel for being foreign—Die
Presse, out of Vienna. Yuri's German is only fair, but he can make out the
headlines well enough. He's engrossed in an article about Togoland when he
hears Vitya's voice down the hall.
"—what you thought about? When you and Mama...? I just want to be prepared."
"You're never truly prepared." The Tsar said. "But I have full confidence that,
ah, when the time arrives, you will do more than my best—and you will hardly be
alone in that."
Vitya's voice softens. "How could I hope to do better than you?"
"You needn't measure by me, Vitya."
Their voices fall quiet as footsteps approach the sitting room. Vitya is the
first through the door; he ducks his head rather than meet Yuri's eye. "Good
evening, Yura," the Tsar says. "I hear we are having partridge aspic with
dinner." He pats Vitya on the back before he heads back down the hallway.
"What was that all about?" Yuri says when Vitya is seated next to him on the
couch.
Vitya shakes his head, a lock of hair falling into his eyes. "I had to ask Papa
for his counsel on something, that's all."
Yuri's nearly breathless, this thoroughly cinched into his stays. "Your hair is
mussed," he says quietly, and fixes it. Vitya catches his hand as Yuri moves to
pull away and presses his thumb into the meat of Yuri's palm. When Vitya lifts
his head, his eyes look wet and glossy. He wipes them with the back of his
hand. Nothing about today is different, except—everything.
===============================================================================
After dinner, they retire into the Tsar's drawing room to hear Mila play
through the Chopin mazurka that she's been practicing. "You've much improved,"
Vanya says when Mila lifts her fingers from the ivory. "You lost track of your
fingering toward the end, though. Try it again."
"I practiced for an hour this morning," Mila says, indignant. "Someone else
should have a turn."
"Very well," Vanya says, glancing at Yuri. Yuri tries not to panic; he hasn't
sat on piano bench since his marriage, as if his skill could compare with
Mila's even at his best. He's ready to protest when Vanya turns away and sits
down on the bench next to Mila. "What do you want me to play?"
The Tsar glances up from his reading. "'Lebensstürme.'"
"Fine," Mila says. "I'll play the other part, unless Vitya wants to."
Vitya shakes his head. "I can never keep up with Mama."
Mila and Vanya are clearly practiced at playing four-hands, Vanya covering the
upper range and Mila the lower. Each tinkling note is precisely placed, each
low chord sounded with gusto. Yuri can almost forget that he's on a plush sofa
in the Tsar's drawing room if he closes his eyes and listens. Vitya is sitting
closer than is quite proper, his side pressed as near to Yuri's as Yuri's
skirts will allow, but they're at home and for the length of a song, Yuri feels
free from scrutiny.
===============================================================================
"Your husband invites your presence, Yuri Andreyevich."
There's something about the precise way Olga speaks that catches Yuri's
attention. Invites, not requests. But when has any invitation here been
otherwise?
"Yes," Yuri says, marking his page with a hair ribbon before setting his book
aside. "Of course."
Tonight, Olga has dressed him in his birthday gift from Baba, a rainbow of
richly-hued silk on a deep blue ground. Beneath it, Yuri is in his softest and
plainest nightgown, which has only ribbons and ruffles for trim; Vitya will no
doubt find him a disappointing present when unwrapped. However, when Yuri opens
the door from the hall into Vitya's room, Vitya looks more surprised than eager
to peel Yuri out of his finery.
"Yura," he says. "Are you—joining me, then?"
"That's what you asked, isn't it?" Yuri lays Baba's robe carefully over the
back of Vitya's chair and kicks off his fur-lined slippers beneath it. By the
time Yuri slides beneath the covers of Vitya's bed, his toes have already
started to chill. Mercilessly, he presses them to Vitya's calf until Vitya
yelps. "What? It's cold in here."
Vitya huffs. "You torment me." He turns toward Yuri anyway and pulls him close,
pressing Yuri's cold nose to his own warm chest without further complaint.
Clumsily, Vitya plucks at the tie around Yuri's braid until it loosens, then
begins the task of undoing all Olga's hard work. The movement of Vitya's hand
in his hair is familiar by now, strangely soothing.
Yuri is nearly asleep when he feels Vitya's cock hard against his leg; he can't
help but startle, his eyes opening. Vitya is still carding through Yuri's
loosened hair. When Yuri slides his thigh against Vitya's, Vitya shifts his
hips away. He does it again when Yuri moves closer, then wordlessly presses a
kiss to Yuri's forehead. Does Vitya not want him now, like this? Did he only
ever want Yuri as the vessel for his seed? Yuri can't make sense of it when
even now he's being held and petted, when Vitya's cock is heavy with the
evidence of his desire.
Vitya kisses Yuri again, this time on the bridge of his nose, then on the lips,
close-mouthed and almost chaste. "Goodnight, my Yura," he says.
***** Chapter 17 *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Nearly two weeks have passed since Grandfather's visit, but even with his
reassurances, it's hard to write to him. Yuri can't remember writing anyone a
letter before. His whole world was bound up in one house, constricted and
protected: who would he write to?
Dear Grandfather,
I am writing as you asked. You should come visit again soon. I am sorry I fell
asleep when you were here. Apparently it happens if you are expecting. Please
pardon the scratchy pen. This is not a very good letter. Could you please give
my greetings to Ksenia and Nurse, thank you.
With Sincere Regard,
Your Grandson,
Yuri Andreyevich
Yuri wipes Vitya's pen with the blotter and stares at the words until the ink
dries. They aren't very good, but they're something, at least. He seals the
letter with wax and the imperial stamp, so it looks very official, and realizes
he has no idea how to mail it.
"I'll have it delivered," Olga says when Yuri comes to her with ink-stained
hands. "Let me clean your hands first, though." So Yuri sits by the fire in his
room as she wipes them down with a soft cloth and sweet-scented oil, massaging
the sore webbing of his fingers as she goes. Afterward, she takes down his hair
to style it for tea. She's very gentle as she brushes it out, starting from the
bottom and working her way up from his waist, loosening tangles and smoothing
his hair until it's shining.
Ever since Yuri's condition became evident belowstairs, the servants have been
especially attentive. He can hardly stir on the library chaise without someone
ducking in to offer tea or a pillow. Sometimes it's bothersome, but mostly it's
pleasant: he's exhausted and sore and occasionally sick, averse to scents he's
hardly noticed before—cigar smoke and sulphur matches, the sickly-sweet glasses
of kissel sometimes served with dessert. The kitchen brings him bland meals and
adds plain crackers to the tea tray in Vanya's quarters, which Yuri eats with
the increasingly weak cups of tea Vanya serves him.
Not that Yuri has said anything to Vanya.
===============================================================================
"You skipped tea with Mama again." Mila throws herself down into one of the
library chairs. "Are you really still sick? Do you have consumption?"
Yuri yawns, covering his mouth, then pretends to cough weakly into his hand.
"Too good for this sinful earth," Mila says solemnly. "Princess Denisova is
back from Moskva and all she ever talks about with Mama is public policy and
adult literacy. I had to pretend I had opinions for an entire hour."
"I'm sure you did better than I would."
Mila shakes her head. "You're good at looking like you're paying attention."
She straightens in her chair. "Are you unwell, though? Georgi said he'd play
piano for us if we wanted to dance."
The ballroom has only been closed for a week. Hesitantly, Yuri says, "It's
Lent?"
"Yura, no one's ever accused me of being too good for this world."
They meet Georgi in the grand drawing room at the end of the floor; the chairs
have been hastily pulled to the sides of the room to make space for them to
dance. It's no true dancefloor, but during these sober months, the more
discreet the venue, the better. "Won't someone hear us?" Yuri says as Mila
shuts the door behind them.
"Denisova is here, she'll be shut up with Mama for hours," Mila says, shooting
Georgi a look that Yuri can't quite read. "Papa is in the state rooms and Vitya
with him. They can't scold us until later."
"There are few secrets here," Georgi says ruefully as he sets out sheet music
on the piano.
Yuri's limbs are heavy with idleness. Even though he's danced dozens of waltzes
by now, he feels clumsy on his feet. Mila’s lead is nowhere near as sturdy as
Vitya’s, leaving their motions unbalanced and almost drunken. She giggles as
they spin and nearly fall over; Yuri just feels dizzy. As they try to cross the
room in a quick series of turns, he stumbles over the hem of his tea gown and
his vision goes dark.
"Wake up, wake up," Mila is saying, prodding his side. And then, when Yuri
twitches away from her: "You fainted, I was scared. Georgi went to find your
maid and tell her—"
Ah, he's in one of the chairs by the window. A cool draft flutters the hair on
the back of his neck; Yuri shudders. "I'm fine," he says. "I just need to lie
down."
Mila frowns. "You're not really dying of consumption, are you?"
"I told you, I just need to lie down."
Georgi holds the door open for them as Mila escorts Yuri into his sitting room.
"Shall I get Vitya?"
"No," Yuri says. "Just let me rest."
Of course, his vision begins to grey again as he lowers himself onto the chaise
in the sitting room, and Olga is at his side immediately. "Be gentle," Olga
says. "That was too much excitement on your feet, I'm sure."
Mila stands beside them, fidgeting with her bracelet. "You didn't say you
weren't dying, Yura."
"I'm not." Yuri's throat feels tight. "The—opposite?"
It takes a moment for Mila to parse that. She gasps. "Really? Are you having a
baby?"
"What else am I here for?"
Mila sticks her tongue out at him. "To be my sister? And be Tsaritsa someday,
of course." She leans down and nearly smothers Yuri in a hug. "I'm so excited."
"That's good," Yuri says tentatively.
"Yes." Mila squeezes him tightly. "It's good."
===============================================================================
That night, Vitya pulls Yuri close as usual, his long body curved around Yuri's
smaller form. "Your hands are soft," Vitya says after he covers one of Yuri's
with his, weaving their fingers together. "I like it." He runs a fingertip over
the inside of Yuri's finger and Yuri squirms against him. "Are you tired yet,
Yura? You slept late this morning."
Yuri doesn't feel like he'll ever stop being tired, but he's stubbornly wakeful
nevertheless. Some itch is under his skin, though the fabric against his body
is the finest and softest there is in the world. How can he complain when every
want is satisfied? The reward of their efforts is growing somewhere within him,
and now that the season has come to an end, Yuri has no greater task set for
him than to nurture it. The string of late nights and extravagant balls has
concluded, Lilia has adjourned to her estate on the coast, and Vitya—
—well, Vitya makes no demands on him.
"Not that late," Yuri says after a moment.
"Ha," Vitya says, then truly laughs, a soundless huff that Yuri feels more than
hears. His cock is half-full, rubbing against Yuri, as it has been every night
since the last time Vitya took him. Yet Vitya acts like he needs no release.
Vitya kisses Yuri's hair. "You need your rest—your body is hard at work."
Yuri stretches, arching back against Vitya. He shivers as the pintucked cotton
of his nightgown drags against his chest. "I don't want to rest."
Vitya is silent for long enough that Yuri wonders if he's fallen asleep. Then
he shifts behind Yuri, his fingers wiggling free from Yuri's grasp, sliding
down Yuri's leg over the thin fabric. He draws the hem of Yuri's nightgown up
slowly, until Yuri is half bare beneath the covers, shivering even though he's
hardly cold. "May I please you? Yura?" Vitya's fingers dip between Yuri's
legs—not to Yuri's sex or his small member, but to the tender skin of his
thighs.
"You're always saying that," Yuri says, twisting, turning toward Vitya. "I
don't know what you mean."
Vitya kisses him then—just at the corner of his mouth, still half-open from
speech. "What do you want?"
"I don't know."
"I don't believe you, Yura."
Yuri sighs. "Do what you want."
"Yura," Vitya says, his tone light but scolding. "Well, if you insist."
The moment Yuri is waiting for—the push of Vitya's fingers inside him—never
arrives. Instead, Vitya crawls down below the blankets, as if he intends to
sleep at Yuri's feet. Yuri can only clutch the topmost blanket beneath his chin
lest it be yanked away, conscious of the cold air on his face, the spread of
his legs below, and then a hot breath against his sex.
Yuri tries to draw his legs together, but he can't, because Vitya is between
them. Vitya's mouth is between them. Unlike the time that Vitya crawled beneath
his skirts, Yuri knows what's happening. He slaps his hand over his own mouth,
as if that will keep in the noise that escapes him when Vitya licks into him,
drawing his tongue between the lips of Yuri's sex. "Vitya," he
says—gasps—against his palm. He can't say anything else. Not while Vitya is
doing that.
This isn't like before. Or maybe it is. There used to be such a clear line—a
severed thread—between Yuri's past and present, but already things seem less
clear. Yuri can't think about it. He bites the meat of his palm while Vitya
slides his tongue inside Yuri's passage, tighter for disuse, but yielding for
him. Yuri's whole face feels hot. He's shivering again. He can't think. He
can't think.
Yuri's whole body convulses, then relaxes, and this time he knows it will. This
time he knows that what he feels is pleasure.
===============================================================================
Yuri wakes up to sunshine on his pillow, feeling comfortable, content, and
unusually well-rested. He has to relieve himself, but not so urgently that he
has to stir from his body-warm nest of blankets. Vitya has rolled away in the
night, but Yuri can feel Vitya's bare skin pressed to his. He closes his eyes,
overwhelmed by a rush of—what, embarrassment? Yuri can barely think about it,
but as soon as he starts, he can't stop, like pressing his hand over and over
to a hot kettle.
All that, and still Vitya made no request for his own satisfaction.
Vitya's elbow bumps against Yuri's side and Yuri carefully breathes out, then
in, trying to feign sleep long enough that he won't have to look Vitya in the
face. He's comfortable where he is. He doesn't need to—
Vitya bumps him again, then shifts in the bed so that Yuri can't feel the
strike, only the movement of Vitya's arm in the sheets. The movement carries in
the bed. For a long, dazed minute, Yuri can't fathom what Vitya's doing, and
then he knows. He has to cram his hand in his mouth, a strange mirror to last
night, except Vitya is pleasuring himself now.
Yuri has wrapped his hand around Vitya's cock before, felt the weight of it in
his hand. He knows what it feels like to stroke Vitya's shaft, but not what
it's like to touch and feel the receiving end. The sound makes Yuri flush,
knuckles clenched white, and he's achingly aware of the fullness of his
bladder. As Vitya approaches his climax, his vigorous motions rattle the bed,
and his breaths are so loud that each sounds like the herald of a hoarse cry.
Finally, Yuri turns over in bed. He lays his hand on Vitya's hip, dragging his
thumb along Vitya's skin where it stretches over the bone. "Vitya," he says
softly, and Vitya's lips part in one last inhale before he spills over his
hand.
The quiet that settles over Yuri afterward feels as heavy as the imperial
mantle. Vitya's eyes are closed; his chest rises and falls with the slowing
gait of his breath. He murmurs when Yuri rolls away, pulling his nightdress
down before he swings his legs down and climbs out of bed. The water closet
feels a million miles away.
While he relieves himself, he can hear Vitya getting up, the opening of the
door that must signal Sergei's arrival. Yuri can't quite make out their
conversation. He lets himself back into the bedroom quietly, but Sergei catches
sight of him and cuts himself off. "I will return later with more news, your
imperial highness."
"What's wrong?" Yuri says.
Sergei is already halfway out the door, so Vitya answers for him. "There's been
an incident in the city. Papa and I won't meet this morning."
"What's wrong?"
"Nothing you have to worry about." Vitya has the expression of someone whose
job it is to worry about it.
Yuri crosses his arms. The abrupt motion makes him feel queasy for a moment,
but the sensation passes almost as quickly as it came. "Tell me."
Vitya sighs. Even though he's rumpled from sleep and his own attentions, the
ease that settled on him afterward has already gone; somehow, that stings.
"I've told you that Papa is not popular," he says. "With my cousin Zhenya, and
those like him, but also the radical element. Those who challenge the absolute
power of Tsar. A group was caught with the makings of a bomb intended to harm
him."
Yuri covers his mouth.
"This isn't the first one this month," Vitya continues. "We have good men who
serve the empire. You're safe here, you needn't fear."
"I'm not afraid." Yuri waits for Vitya to chastise him for lying, but Vitya
says nothing. His face is a mask, placid and smooth, the same one he wore for
the first months of their marriage. Yuri wants to slap it off him. "Is this why
you want a child? For when you're the target of a—"
"Don't you dare," Vitya says, and oh—Yuri's found what will pull him out of
that dispassionate fugue. "Don't mistake my duty for indifference." He steps
toward Yuri. "I'd die for you both."
"I don't like it."
"You don't have to."
Yuri doesn't know what to say. It wasn't easy to reach out to Vitya in bed, but
Yuri knows, at least, the language of their bodies. Is he supposed to comfort
Vitya? Supposed to want to?
Vitya rests his hand on Yuri's waist. They're very close now. "Yura, I can't
change this."
"You could become a revolutionary and overthrow the government," Yuri says,
thinking of his heavy court dress. "Maybe they'd be happy then."
"Papa tried that," Vitya says. "It's more complicated than you'd think."
===============================================================================
Yuri joins Vanya for tea; it's better than being alone in his quarters with
everything rattling around in his head. There are no other guests. "Where is
Baba?" Yuri asks after a round of empty pleasantries. "I haven't seen him
since—" Some ball or other. "In a while."
"Valya leaves for Yalta after the season," Vanya smiles. "He might grace us
with his presence at the dacha in the summer." To Yuri's blank look, he adds,
"We do usually move at the end of the season. I've delayed our move to the
summer palace on your account."
"Oh," Yuri says.
Vanya lifts his eyebrows.
No, Yuri doesn't want to have this conversation. He puts half of a sukhariki in
his mouth and immediately regrets it. The long cookie is bone-dry and the sharp
chunks of hazelnut bite at his mouth. He chews the entire mouthful, which might
as well be sawdust, then swallows against his stomach's protests.
"Do you have something to share with me?" Vanya says.
Yuri fidgets with the napkin spread on his lap. For a little while, he's been
able to pretend that his body belongs to himself, and not to the empire, that
his condition affects him alone. Yet twice today Yuri's been reminded how
untrue that is—first by the thwarted threat against the throne, and now by
Vanya, who stood watch as Vitya first took Yuri on the altar. To them, he's
first and foremost a vessel.
Vanya's voice gentles. "Yura, my household turns on your answer. Are you more
comfortable somewhere familiar? Would you rather stay here with Vitya when we
leave or move somewhere less formal?"
Have they been having a different conversation all along? "I don't know," Yuri
says.
"I don't intend to leave before Easter, now," Vanya says. "You have a few weeks
to decide."
===============================================================================
After dinner with the imperial family, Vitya doesn't head to his room
immediately. Instead, he draws Yuri into the library. The room is cool, no fire
crackling in the hearth, and Yuri immediately draws one of the blankets on the
back of the chaise around himself as Vitya squeezes in next to him. "This is my
chaise," Yuri says, bumping his shoulder against Vitya's. "Your chair is over
there."
"I promise to sit in my chair next time," Vitya says. Two people on the chaise
is hardly a tight fit, but there's no room on Yuri's end and Vitya seems
determined to adhere himself to Yuri's side. He takes the end of the blanket
and pulls it over Yuri's lap, securing it between them. "Are you warm enough?"
Yuri struggles against the instinct to complain. "Yes."
"Mama said he asked you about moving to the summer palace. It's quiet
there—outside the city, but not too far. We have our own village. You could
play croquet, walk in the gardens..."
"Go outside?" Yuri says incredulously. "You just told me that people were
plotting to—"
Vitya shakes his head. "It's very safe there."
Yuri's spent his life moving from one narrow existence to the next—from the
close confines of Grandfather's house to the grand halls of the palace, each
place guarded, protected, cut off from the world. For the first time, he
understands Mila's eagerness the night of the masked ball, her impatience. Each
day as Tsarevna broadens his horizons—but only so far. He'll never make it to
Sumatra or Tripoli; his best luck is a night with false claws and painted
stripes.
Vitya mistakes Yuri's quiet for hesitance and takes Yuri's hand, threading
their fingers together. "Yura, no one will hurt you. I'm sorry I burdened you—"
"Someone would have told me," Yuri says with more heat than he expected. "Or do
you think I'm too delicate to—that I'll do nothing when I'm—" His voice sticks
in his throat. "When I'm Tsaritsa."
"That day won't come soon," Vitya says.
"How do you know?"
Vitya's shoulders slump. "Yura, can we not—not tonight."
Yuri doesn't shove Vitya off when Vitya leans against him, not even when Potya
comes in and butts at Yuri's ankles insistently. Vitya is heavy, but he's
tired. He turns as he slips down and ends with his head in Yuri's lap, his
cheek squashed against Yuri's belly. It's hard to reconcile the Vitya of a few
months ago with this one, weighted down with his concerns, not trying to charm
or cajole. Yuri run his fingers through Vitya's hair and Vitya goes so lax that
for a moment, Yuri thinks he's fallen asleep.
===============================================================================
In the great painting in Vanya's sitting room, Vitya's hair is long, a silver
braid that reaches nearly to his waist. Mila is small, her cheeks plump—Yuri
couldn't say what age. Vanya catches his eye. "Admiring our young Vitya?"
"You all look very young," Yuri says, toying with the napkin on his lap.
"Vitya was, what, fourteen? So Milasha would have been five." Vanya's face
softens with fondness. "That was a good year for him. Difficult for her. She
used to bite."
Yuri presses his lips together to stifle a laugh.
"I must find an artist for you and Vitya. Valya surely knows someone
inappropriate and talented."
"Ah," Yuri says.
"Your face is too thin now, though," Vanya says, studying him. "You should eat
more."
"I'm trying," Yuri says. Then: "It's hard when I know people are watching."
"Should I turn away from the table, then?"
"I thought you were trying to teach me better manners."
Vanya is quiet for a moment. In the week since their conversation about the
summer palace, he's become suspiciously warm and permissive. Yuri even refused
dessert at dinner once without drawing rebuke. "Some things are more important
than manners. Few, of course."
"Of course," Yuri echoes.
"I am concerned about your nourishment," Vanya says. "If porridge must be at
every meal, I will ensure that it is served without comment." At Yuri's frown,
he adds, "This is not a time for embarrassment, Yura."
Yuri twists the napkin in his lap. Why is it so hard to say the words, to admit
he's accomplishing the task that was set for him—the purpose for which they
brought him here? He glances at the portrait again. How tall would he have
stood then? Try as he might, Yuri can't insert himself. Yet they've always
known about him, seen portraits of him; delicate daguerreotypes, then
photographs on silver gelatin paper, the ones that hang in Vitya's room.
"Porridge would help," he says.
===============================================================================
Olga dresses Yuri for bed in a nightgown so high-necked that it feels almost
strangling, and the lace tickles Yuri's chin. He lasts a few minutes lying in
bed next to Vitya before he loosens the collar and cuffs and pulls the
nightgown over his head.
"Yura," Vitya says, sounding surprised.
Yuri worms his way back down beneath the sheets. "I don't like this one. It's
uncomfortable."
They've barely touched each other in bed since the morning of the attempted
bombing, even though Yuri wakes each morning to find Vitya hard against him.
Yuri is aware, now, of how close they are, how exposed he is. Even with the
nightgown gone, there's an itch under his skin. He can't help but think of how
Vitya's mouth felt on him, and then of the power he felt watching Vitya bring
himself to completion.
After everything that's passed between them, surely Yuri shouldn't feel this
way. Yielding, then resisting—both of those were easier, in their own way, than
wanting. Only in the absence of necessity does Yuri feel yearning for his own
satisfaction. He doesn't know how to ask for it.
Instead, he turns to Vitya and rolls his body up against Vitya's, his skin
against the cotton cambric of Vitya's nightshirt. Vitya hesitates, for a
moment, then turns to capture Yuri's mouth with his. His lips press against
Yuri's for a moment before he opens Yuri up, his tongue brushing against
Yuri's, and Yuri quakes with the memory of how Vitya's tongue felt inside his
sex. Time feels liquid as Vitya rubs against Yuri's hip and Yuri grinds against
Vitya's thigh. When Vitya touches Yuri's sensitive chest, Yuri hisses, then
catches Vitya's hand there before he can pull away. With Vitya's caress, he's
undone.
He clutches Vitya's shoulder, digging his nails in, and Vitya half sobs as he
spends, head falling back against his pillow as his body arches up against
Yuri's. He doesn't speak, afterward, but he presses his lips to Yuri's
forehead, and holds Yuri tightly until they drift off to sleep.
===============================================================================
The next day, there's a letter from Grandfather, at last, and a small package:
His Imperial Majesty requested I include these.
Yuri undoes the string and brown paper quickly, wondering—what? a book?—but
it's nothing he expects at all. At first, he thinks it's a stack of cards, and
then he spreads them out over the sitting room table: old photographs, some
already yellowing, and barely taller than his palm. There's Grandfather and
Grandmother, who died well before Yuri was born, each with dark hair on their
heads, and then—Yuri's mother, who he's only ever seen in the larger tintype
hanging in the sitting room. She's as short and petite as Yuri, her dress round
as a bell in the long-gone fashion, sleeves puffed and trimmed with ribbon.
They must be close to the same age here.
The rest of the photographs are people Yuri hardly recognizes—distant
relatives, their names written on the back in Grandfather's careful hand.
Except for the last card, which is Yuri's father and mother together, new
wedding bands on their fingers. Yuri's never seen his father before. He turns
the photograph over, but there's nothing written on the back. His hands are
shaking.
Yuri leaves the photographs on the table and wanders back toward his bedroom.
The door to Vitya's is open—the maids are changing the sheets, white cotton for
white cotton. Yuri's own bedroom is already neatened. He lies down on the bed
and closes his eyes, seeing the images as freshly as if the cards were in his
hands. There were no pictures of him. Yuri exists somewhere in the middle,
untethered from the rest of the world. Only—
He places his hand over his belly.
===============================================================================
When Olga is getting ready to take down his hair that evening, Yuri shakes his
head. "Leave it up." He takes a breath. "Will you bring Vitya to me?"
Olga raises her eyebrows. "Here?"
"Yes," Yuri says.
Vitya opens Yuri's door a minute later, brow pinched with concern. "You asked
for me, Yura. Are you unwell?" Like Yuri, he's dressed for bed, wearing a
nightshirt under his usual robe.
"I'm fine." Yuri swallows, trying not to lose his nerve. He almost sends Vitya
away again. "Will you brush my hair?"
Vitya looks perplexed. "I can't promise I'll do it very well."
"I just want you to do it," Yuri says.
"Of course," says Vitya. "Of course." He steps further into the room, looking
around. He's never come in here before, not that Yuri remembers. Yuri's never
invited him.
Olga hands Vitya the hairbrush, her face carefully neutral. "Good night, your
imperial highnesses." She curtsies and excuses herself.
"Good night," Vitya says distractedly as Olga closes the door. He stares at the
hairbrush as if he's never seen one before.
"It's not that hard. I'll take it down first." Yuri turns toward the mirror and
starts fumbling out the pins, trying to remember where Olga placed them his
morning. He unties the ends of the braids and loosens them so that they fall
over his shoulders in waves.
Vitya doesn't know where to begin, even though he ought to remember, given his
youthful waterfall of silver hair. Yuri winces. "Don't start at the top of my
head, that just makes it worse. Do the bottom. No—short strokes. Just a little
at a time."
"Short strokes," Vitya repeats. He follows Yuri's instructions, although he's
so gentle that each yanked tangle is painful and takes more work to undo. "Is
that right?"
"You can go faster." Vitya's stroke nearly pulls Yuri's head back. "Yes, like
that. But hold my hair in your hand, a little higher—yes."
As Vitya brushes his hair, Yuri imagines what it would be like to have him as a
lady's maid. To have Vitya braid his hair and put it up in the morning, then
take it down at night. To have Vitya lace his stays and fasten his boots with a
narrow-eyed buttonhook. He'd do it all with seriousness and passion; Vitya just
wants to be given something to do.
"How is that, Yura? Look in the mirror."
At best, Yuri could play the part of some drunken seraphim, hair puffing out on
one side from an over-ear snarl and rolling in waves from his braid on the
other. He can see Vitya standing behind him, disappointment written all over
his face. "I didn't ask you to be good at it," Yuri says. "I just wanted you to
do it."
Vitya looks at Yuri for a long moment. The hairbrush is still in his hand. Yuri
still doesn't know how to ask for what he wants, or how to tell Vitya. His own
face is unreadable to him. "This is what you wanted, then."
"It's what I want," Yuri says firmly, turning away from the mirror, stepping
closer. He puts his hand on Vitya's chest. Vitya makes a noise and Yuri closes
his eyes, tilting his head up, parting his lips. Nothing happens for long
enough that Yuri starts to draw back, flushing with shame.
Vitya drops the hairbrush and catches Yura by the shoulders. He does kiss Yuri
then—more cautiously than he did last night, his lips soft against Yuri's. Yuri
grabs Vitya by the fine linen of his shirt before Vitya can pull away. He
kisses back roughly, but Vitya responds immediately, gasping into Yuri's mouth,
his hands going to Yuri's hips.
"Yura," Vitya says when they pull apart. His lips are very red.
Yuri's sex feels wet and hot, the way it felt last night when they were in bed.
"I want—" he says. "I—" His hand closes on Vitya's shirt again.
Vitya kisses Yuri open-mouth, tangling his hand in Yuri's hair, destroying his
hard work already. When Yuri tries putting his hand in Vitya's hair, his
thumbnail scrapes Vitya's ear; Vitya shudders.
"What do you want?" Vitya says. "Tell me."
"Stop asking me. Just—do it." Yuri's thigh is halfway between Victor's, and he
can feel Victor's stiff cock through their nightclothes. Before, Yuri didn't
have to say anything at all, yes or no, whether he wanted something or what he
wanted. In the moment, the certainty of what has passed between them seems
safer than whatever Yuri feels now.
Vitya exhales sharply. "Here?"
Yuri squirms in Vitya's hold. "Yes."
So Vitya undresses them, this part familiar, before he crosses the room to
Yuri's bed, where Olga has turned down the sheets. He hesitates until Yuri
climbs between them and holds them up for Vitya. As soon as Vitya is underneath
the covers, Yuri burrows next to him, trying to shake off the chill of the air
on his bare skin. Vitya is very still.
"Is something wrong?" Yuri says.
"No," Vitya says, and then he's climbing over Yuri, kissing his throat, then
his mouth again.
When Yuri wraps his hand around Vitya's cock, Vitya nearly collapses on top of
him. Yuri runs his fingers over the delicate skin of Vitya's shaft, rolling
back the ruff that encircles the head. He doesn't hurry his investigation. His
touch makes Vitya tremble, panting against Yuri's neck.
Finally, Vitya pushes his hand away and reaches down, past Yuri's too-sensitive
member, until he can sink two fingers into Yuri's sex. He shudders, dragging
his cock against Yuri's leg as he pushes inside Yuri. "Yura, you're so wet."
Yuri clenches down on Vitya's fingers. He can't even speak. Vitya goes slowly,
fingers sliding in and out, the steady pace torturous. Yuri's breathing so
hard, sweat beading on his brow. Somehow this is different in his bed, which is
lower, the mattress softer. Or maybe it's that Vitya knows what Yuri wants and
gives it to him. He sucks at Yuri's nipples, which are already a little
swollen, and gives Yuri nothing but his fingers until Yuri pulls his hand free
and guides Vitya's cock into place.
Vitya spills inside him almost immediately.
Tears spring to Yuri's eyes; he can't help it. He's overwhelmed by emotion.
"No, no, Yura," Vitya says, sloppily kissing Yuri's face, and then his fingers
are inside Yuri again, and he brings Yuri to the edge nearly as quickly as Yuri
did him. Yuri throws his arms around Vitya's neck and tucks his face against
Vitya's throat as pleasure shakes him apart; his whole body thrums with
satisfaction. Just as suddenly, he's exhausted, going limp against the sheets.
Vitya pulls his fingers out, his seed trickling out between them, hot on Yuri's
thighs. Then he turns Yuri so they're spooned together the way they are at
night. He rests his hand over Yuri's belly and kisses the back of Yuri's neck.
Yuri takes a deep breath. “Thank you,” he says. “For brushing my hair."
Chapter End Notes
     strudel originally wrote the last scene in chat on 11/22, not that
     long after we started posting our story. Victor and Yuri have come so
     far since then! You can see the original version, which is quite
     different, here_on_tumblr.
Please drop_by_the_archive_and_comment to let the author know if you enjoyed
their work!