Hyacinth interrupted him by closing his lips with a kiss that was so passionate it took his breath away and made him forget for a second what he intended to say. In the next moment it became meaningless since Hyacinth reached for his manhood and helped him enter. Both of them moaned. Vrila became light-headed with lust, and his fingers clamped so firmly on Hyacinth’s hips that it must have hurt him.
Their tongues jousted with one another, intensifying the heaving of their lower bodies and making it almost unbearable. Then the young man sat up to ride him in slow undulating movements. And, oh Heavens, how hot he looked doing so, was nearly too much… With a slightly open mouth Vrila saw how his husband took the reins into his own hands.
Moaning with pleasure, Hyacinth laid his head in his neck and sprawled seductively upon him. His brow was bathed with sweat that also ran down his flat abdomen. With his eyes, Vrila followed the beads that directed his attention to the young man’s stiff manhood extended toward him. Drops exuded from its bulging tip; veins obtruded visibly. He was beautiful…
When they exchanged glances, and Hyacinth took him deeply into himself again, Vrila lost all self-control. He reached for his lover’s narrow waist and increased the pace to fuck him fast and hard.
Hyacinth responded visibly pleased. Holding on to him, he grasped his own hard length to stimulate himself. While doing so, he never averted his gaze and, to his surprise, Vrila found it immensely arousing. Gasping, he rammed himself into his husband’s body and ejaculated with a feeble scream into his tight warmth.
“Oh, yes,” Hyacinth exclaimed and extruded at the same moment onto Vrila’s stomach, which enticed a dirty, profoundly satisfied grin from Vrila, something he thought those lips would be incapable of.
He wiped himself clean with the sheet so he could pull Hyacinth onto him. Their mouths met in a small, innocent kiss before the young man, breathing heavily, buried his face in his neck. Vrila enthusiastically wrapped his arms around him and inhaled the enchanting fragrance of his dearest one deep into his lungs. Who would have thought that a sweaty man could smell so damn good?
Hyacinth nestled even closer to him and sighed sweetly when Vrila spread a blanket over them since he began to feel chilled.
Sleepy, he bedded a cheek on his husband’s blond, silky locks as the latter’s breathing became calmer.
“I like to look at you,” the young man muttered and seemed to barely open his mouth while speaking, so mumbled were his words. He continued, but was nearly impossible to understand: “… if you… don’t believe… I think you’re handsome… doesn’t matter what… others say.”
Vrila’s heart fluttered. He must have misheard, but it echoed in his head that Hyacinth didn’t find him repulsive. Oh, what stupid insanity, he admonished himself in silence. The boy must have said something quite different.
Involuntarily he took him more securely into his arms, caressed his bare skin with the tips of his fingers and swore to never again do anything that might harm him. Hyacinth gave him so much, and Vrila wanted to try and return as well as he could at least a small portion of the gift.
Chapter 15
On the following morning, when Hyacinth left the house before sunrise, his husband had still been snuggling up peacefully on their pillows.
Something had changed yesterday evening; he sensed it. They had become closer – not only physically, but also in a completely different respect.
Hyacinth was more than elated and certain nothing could erase the smile from his lips today.
The air outside was ice-cold and crept beneath his clothes. He breathed it in deeply and smirked at the mist. The sky was barely visible behind its thick white plumes. What little he could perceive looked grey and desolate. It was the same old Ascot; nevertheless, it didn’t affect him.
The tiny bell on Mr Wiplay’s door emitted a quiet tingle when he entered. Yawning, he closed the door behind him and began to climb the many steps to the living room. “Good morning,” he called, trying not to startle his mentor. Obviously he hadn’t yet noticed Hyacinth was already in the house.
Strange. He heard no reply.
Reaching the top of the stairs, he glimpsed his teacher in the large fireside chair in front of the hearth. His eyes were closed; a pale hand holding the small statue in his fingers lay on an armrest; the other hand clutched his abdomen.
For an incomprehensible reason Hyacinth felt sudden fear when he looked at the expressionless features on the face usually beaming with life and cheerfulness.
“Mr Wiplay?” he asked in the unearthly silence and feared he’d once again hear no reply.
To his immeasurable relief, his mentor opened his eyes. But the relief faded immediately when a dim expression gazed up at him. Every glint of brightness seemed to have faded from his teacher’s eyes.
“My boy,” Mr Wiplay muttered and weakly motioned him to come closer.
Hyacinth hurried to his side and knelt on the rug. “What’s wrong with you? Are you ill? Should I fetch Vrila?“
“No, no, stay here with me,“ came a wheezing reply, and Mr Wiplay reached for Hyacinth’s hand. He held it so firmly it hurt.
Only then, when the old man relaxed his hold on his abdomen, did Hyacinth realise with horror that his friend’s clothes were drenched in blood. “You need help! I need to go get Vrila!” He wanted to tear himself loose to run and wake his husband so he could save their friend, but the elderly man wouldn’t release his hold.
“He can’t help me anymore. It’ll be over soon. Don’t leave me alone, I implore you.” So much anguish could be heard in his voice that Hyacinth was unable to refuse the request. He remained on his knees and held the old man’s hand in his own trembling one. Totally overwhelmed, his entire body began to shake.
“What happened?” he asked breathlessly and stared at the gaping stomach wound. Blood continued to flow from it, drenching the man’s white nightshirt. He felt sick. “I need to bring Vrila here; he can help you, Mr Wiplay. Seymour, please.”
Mr Wiplay didn’t reply but stared into the distance. Tears stood in his eyes. A moment later the drops ran down his ashen cheeks. Suddenly he smiled. “Tell Gavrila, he was always like a son to me. I couldn’t have loved him any more.” He leaned his head back as if it were too heavy. “I remember that night… a few months ago. He was totally drunk… which he never is… yammered to me, he’d found the love of his life, but could never have him. On the following m…” He winced and groaned with pain, causing Hyacinth to sob. “The following morning he was ashamed of himself. Now he’s… he’s so happy with you.”
“Wh-whom did he meet?”
“You, my boy,” Seymour responded with a melancholy grin on his pale lips then shivered. “It’s so terribly cold in here. Do me a favour, Hyacinth?”
He nodded eagerly. “Anything.”
“Tell Maurice that I love him. I never… could bring myself to admit it to him,” Seymour uttered faintly. Profound sadness resonated in his voice. The gleam in his eyes diminished. He seemed to be slipping away. “Maurice Lynnen is his name.“ So, the statue was by that man. M. L. were the initials on the underside. “I’ve loved him my entire life, but never... never said a word about it because I was afraid he wouldn’t want me. On account of my being all fingers and thumbs. Tell him; please do it for me.”
“I’ll make sure he knows, Sir,” Hyacinth swore in a raw voice with tears in his eyes.
“Stop crying.” Mr Wiplay smiled. “I wouldn’t like to see you sink into depression just because something unavoidable happened. You should laugh and hold on to the pleasant memories. Take my advice to heart as much as you possibly can.”
“What happened, Mr Wiplay? Tell me.”
“I… I was standing in the kitchen, brewing tea… for both of us…” He groaned with pain and bared his teeth. “He came in and told me, he… couldn’t allow me… to keep on talking about him. It was too… dangerous, he said.”
“Who did it?”
“Before I could react, he’d stabb
ed a knife into my fl… flesh.”
“Who, Mr Wiplay? Who?” Urging him hoarsely, he grasped the bony, wrinkled fingers resting in both of his hands.
“Fletcher. He became frightened when you confronted him.”
“No, no,” Hyacinth whispered in despair and leaned even more over his friend’s hand. “That means I’m to blame. I’m so sorry; you had to pay for my stupidity; please forgive me.”
“Nobody is to blame for this, my boy. I’m not angry at you. At none of you; how could I be? No reproaches, no tears, you hear? See to it that Gavrila… your Vrila laughs instead of cries. You two are like sons to me…” Fingers wet with blood stroked Hyacinth’s hair affectionately before they glided down to the old man’s lap, grasped the statue then remained still. A gurgling emanated from Seymour’s throat before the shivering ceased and he remained motionless in his chair as though he were merely sleeping. But his chest no longer rose and fell.
Hyacinth wished it were only a dream, but for the first time in his life he sensed cold, hard reality suppressing everything else, imposing its horror on him.
“Mr Wiplay?” Hyacinth squeezed his fingers; there was no reaction. “Mr Wiplay?!” He elicited no response and sobbed so violently he almost lost his breath.
With an effort he stood up only to feel his legs give way under him as he fell to the floor.
He picked himself up and ran to find Vrila.
*
Taken aback, Vrila returned the volume on heart treatments to its place on the shelf and turned to the door when Hyacinth stormed in. “You have to come. Quickly,” his husband choked forth. Plain and simple horror stood written on his face.
Even before Vrila could react, Hyacinth had grasped his wrist and was dragging him out into the cold. “What’s happened?” he demanded in a bewildered voice, but his heart was already pounding, his throat stiffening as though he’d been afflicted by an evil premonition.
Instead of answering, Hyacinth led him to Seymour’s house. The bell tingled as though nothing had happened. And yet Vrila knew something terrible had transpired. Something that would change their lives forever. He knew it deep down.
He’d followed the young man upstairs and after Hyacinth had released his grip, in slow strides he closed the distance between himself and Seymour’s chair. What he saw deprived him of both breath and speech.
For an eternity he merely stood there and stared down at Seymour whose expression appeared dreadfully peaceful. It represented a stark contrast to the wound in his abdomen.
At last Vrila leaned over to determine whether the man who’d been like a father to him still had a beating heart.
His pulse had stopped throbbing, and as much as Vrila wanted to feel a vein vibrate under his fingers, none did. Carefully he stroked the hand holding the statue that had meant so much to him.
Something inside him couldn’t believe this was the end. He was paralysed by the sight, by his thoughts and by his disbelief.
A weeping Hyacinth tore him from his trance. He had fallen to his knees, grasping at his curly blond hair. “It’s my fault he’s dead! My fault alone! God, you must hate me for being the one responsible.“
“Shut up!“ Vrila snarled at him and cursed himself a moment later for the inappropriate severity of his words.
His hysterical husband held his breath and hid his face by placing his forehead on his knees and his arms over his head as if protecting himself from an attack. The young man needed comforting, but Vrila was incapable of offering any. It broke his heart, and he knew Seymour would have reproached him for having been so gruff. But Seymour was no longer alive and would never again reproach him for anything.
“We have to alert the police. And an undertaker.” His voice sounded oddly detached because he was striving to suppress everything as much as possible.
“Fletcher. It was Fletcher,” Hyacinth stated with a lifeless intonation.
Not until that moment did Vrila comprehend the enormity of what had taken place, even though he should have comprehended it immediately – in any event it was obvious. Someone had taken Seymour’s life through violence. Pierce Fletcher had murdered him. He’d pay the price. The filthy bastard would pay dearly.
Keeping his feelings in check, Vrila leaned over and pressed his mouth gently on Seymour’s still warm forehead. In his thoughts he recited a Levonian prayer Seymour had taught him when he was a young boy.
“You go and alert the inspector. I’ll take care of Fletcher,” he growled at the lad and reeled around to leave.
Hyacinth leapt to his feet and grabbed Vrila’s upper arm, holding him back. “What do you intend to do? You’re not going to that crazy man’s…!”
Vrila brusquely jerked himself loose and roared: “You do what I tell you, damn it!” He was enraged – not at Hyacinth who nevertheless felt his wrath.
The young man retreated and desperately stared aghast at him with his large, green eyes. Now the time had come when Vrila needed to take him in his arms and say he didn’t hate him at all.
However, he couldn’t bring himself to do so.
What had become of his promise on the previous night when he vowed to never harm Hyacinth again? Only a few hours had passed, and he’d already broken that promise.
Without another word he hurried out of the house and left the boy alone with all of his sorrow and unnecessary self-accusations. He did it because he wanted to suppress his own suffering and the rebukes he made against himself. Whereas Hyacinth wore his emotions so openly, Vrila repressed his own. It wasn’t fair of him. It was contemptible to so shamefully leave his young husband in the lurch. And for that he hated himself.
*
Impatiently he pounded on the front door. Minutes had elapsed since he’d knocked the first time, and now he had to wonder if the man was even at home. Vrila knew better. He’d seen someone behind the drapes on the upper floor. He hadn’t been able to tell if it was Fletcher or someone else but he knew someone was inside hearing his demands to be let in. He would have bet everything that Fletcher was entrenched there.
Seething with hatred, he clamped his teeth. This damn son of a bitch. The bastard probably thought he could escape his just punishment. However, Vrila wouldn’t allow it.
Too many chains were on the door to permit him to open it with only a picklock, and there were too many people nearby to allow him to kick it in. Damn it, what were all those people doing in the streets at that time? Had a higher power roused them from their beds to interfere with his plans for revenge?
He couldn’t accept that.
Therefore he crept between two buildings to the back door. That one was also more than likely barricaded, but at least he could work on it without being hindered by alarmed passers-by.
The air was so cold it felt like thousands of small icicles in his lungs trying to stab him from within. His breath caused tiny clouds to form before his eyes. Slowly the fog lifted, and behind the plumes, the sun struggled to be seen in the sky, shrouding everything in a peculiarly dim light.
Vrila took out the picklock he’d obtained for Howard’s assignments. He shoved it into the lock of the narrow, green door and turned it. It did its duty, and Vrila turned the handle with ice-cold fingers. It wouldn’t open.
As he expected, Fletcher had put extra security measures on the back door as well. What was the man so afraid of? Was he really in the secret society? Had someone murdered his wife because she couldn’t keep silent? And had the society finally set him on Seymour? Because they’d asked too many questions?
Vrila swallowed when the image of his elderly friend came to mind. How peacefully he had sat in his favourite armchair. Painfully his chest tightened, and he took a deep breath to clear his mind.
He kicked against the wood in the lower left corner. The paint splintered and left traces on his boots which he’d urgently need to clean off afterwards.
When the planks finally burst, he felt as though his bones would also break. He hissed through his teeth.
Wit
h his heart pounding loudly, he lowered to his knees and felt around the newly opened hole. He encountered wood planks Fletcher had nailed over the entrance to protect himself from uninvited guests.
However they wouldn’t keep Vrila from his revenge.
With all of his strength he shoved and pulled on the hindrances until he splintered more wood and had bloodied his hands. The hole was now large enough for him to squeeze through.
Halfway through, a button of his coat became caught, jerking it from the fabric. Vrila grabbed the piece of evidence and shoved it into a pocket.
Once inside, he picked himself up and brushed the dust from his clothes. He was standing in an area no one had been in for a long time. It was a small laundry room. The empty shelves were soiled and covered with spider webs. A musty odour irritated his throat. The dust particles he’d stirred up tickled the back of his mouth, making him cough. On one of the clotheslines there hung a rag which at some point had been a linen cloth. He pushed it aside and saw a door that he soon strode through quietly to reach the corridor, the same one Fletcher had led them through yesterday.
Without a sound he crept along it, ignored the darkness that sent shivers down his spine and ascended the stairway. Nothing could be heard upstairs, and he feared the filthy swine might have escaped through the front door. Fletcher must have been aware of his breaking in downstairs. Or perhaps not? Was it possible he hadn’t heard him kicking in the door?
His fingers wrapped around the pistol grip he held in front of his chest, ready to shoot if necessary. He felt the trembling of his hand and decided to ignore it.
For a moment the question occurred to him whether he could actually point the barrel of his revolver at a human being and pull the trigger. Was he so wicked and cold enough to do that when not in the midst of a war?
Yes, curse it! He had to do it! That bastard had killed Seymour and deserved nothing less!
Seymour wouldn’t want it, and you know that… and what is the lad going to think of you? No, no, Hyacinth must learn nothing about it! He didn’t need to be aware of the guilt Vrila intended to burden himself with.
A Hyacinth for His Hideousness Page 34