Tenderly Wicked

by Katerina Ross

  At last, after lots and lots of brooding, Max forced himself to ask, “Do you want to talk about the scene last night?”

  Vadim had just finished a bowl of chicken soup Max had made him eat—and handed the empty dish back to him. “No. Why?”

  “Because it didn’t go well?” Max prompted.

  Vadim shrugged dismissively, not looking him in the eyes. “Things do sometimes.”

  “So you’re okay with it?” Max proceeded with doubt in his voice. “I mean… I sort of…”

  “Yeah, I’m fine,” Vadim confirmed. “It’s just a cold. Maybe I caught it at work.”

  Max contemplated him with uncertainty. He felt stupid, standing by the bed with a bowl in his hands and trying to muster his courage and say that, no, Vadim shouldn’t be all right about what had happened.

  He’d read about abusers who tended to persuade their victims nothing was out of the ordinary, thus trying to belittle the damage done. But now it was a vice versa situation, or so it seemed.

  “I have classes today, but not for long,” Max said at length, unsure if he should press the matter. “I’ll be back soon. You don’t mind if I leave you for a while?”

  Vadim flashed a shy smile at him, almost apologetic, as if he felt bad about making Max worry. “Of course I don’t.”

  But when Max turned to go and wash the dishes, Vadim caught him by a fold of his t-shirt. “Just don’t spend more time there than needed, okay? It’s kind of boring, sitting in bed without you.”

  ****

  The apartment was dark and silent when Max returned. Max found Vadim curled into a solitary ball at the edge of the bed, the blanket and sheets wadded around him. Max thought him asleep and tiptoed into the room only to adjust the blanket over him, but Vadim moved and blindly reached a hand for him in the dark.

  “Hey.” Max squatted beside him and touched his forehead. Hot. Not scorching hot, but clearly feverish. “How d’you feel?”

  Instead of answering, Vadim inched closer to the edge and wrapped an arm around Max’s neck in an awkward loose half-hug.

  “Does that mean you missed me?” Max attempted a joke, but it sounded feeble.

  Vadim nuzzled the curve between his shoulder and neck. “Uh-huh.”

  “How’s your throat?”

  “Bearable.” His voice was croaky and barely audible.

  “What were you doing while I was out? Did you take a nap?” A small affirmative nod. “Did you gargle?”

  Vadim shook his head slightly.

  “Why?”

  “Didn’t want to get up.”

  It took Max a while to persuade Vadim to release his grip. “I’ll just fetch you medicine. I’ll be back in a moment. I’m not going anywhere.” Vadim clung to him, reluctant to let go, as if dazed. Max wondered if it was some kind of delayed reaction to what had happened the night before, or just sickness making his sub shaky and vulnerable.

  Max had to almost forcibly haul Vadim to sit upright by the headboard. He arranged pillows behind and tucked the blanket around Vadim’s miserable huddled frame, then put the newly-bought thermometer under his armpit, quickly changed into home pants and a t-shirt and went to put the kettle on to boil.

  “I’m such a bother,” Vadim uttered gloomily after Max had taken his temperature and made him drink the contents of a mug with dissolved medicine. “I should have taken something myself. I don’t know why I didn’t. I’m so utterly pathetic. Sorry.”

  “You’re not a bother at all. What can I do to make it better?”

  Vadim made an awful phlegmy noise that might have been a laugh. “Shared body heat could help, as always.”

  Max sat down beside him and enveloped him in a tight embrace. “I wish it could.”

  They both started rocking, and Max felt Vadim’s body unwinding against him, submissive and trusting.

  Max would do anything to repair the damage he’d caused. He’d nurture his sub and do all the pampering people were supposed to do when their loved ones were ill—as if caring could salvage a bad scene and redeem its consequences. Max felt all the more disgusted with himself for hoping maybe it could, at least partially.

  Anyway, even if he could lessen Vadim’s suffering for now, what about the next times? What if he left a permanent mark, a scar—unintentionally—just because of his ineptness? What if he caused nerve damage by making restraints too tight? What if… What if…

  There were too many ways to screw up. There were far fewer to make it right. He had no business being a Dom. And tomorrow, he was going to tell Vadim.

  ****

  Come to think of it, Vadim might have lots of reasons to stay in a bad relationship. The fear of being alone or addiction to the things his lover made him experience, to the intensity of emotions and physical sensations. He’d had a history of unhealthy liaisons, judging by the scraps of information Max had gathered. Had Vadim realized he’d get hurt each time he plunged into the next dubious romance? Did he realize that now, with Max?

  If not, maybe it was necessary to back off and let him see the situation clearly. No one should be abused under the aegis of BDSM. If Vadim understood what was going on, maybe he’d want to leave. To end another disappointing attachment.

  That was a disturbing thought. They were now rooted so deep into each other’s lives that Max couldn’t imagine parting with Vadim, not of his own free will. Only half a year had passed since they’d met—and yet it felt like they’d been long-time lovers, partners, whatever.

  But this confession had to be made sooner or later, for Vadim’s sake.

  Max waited for the right moment, but no moment seemed right for this talk, so at last he began out of the blue, on a Sunday morning, when they’d finished the breakfast he’d prepared and Vadim was almost through with washing the dishes. “I need to tell you something.”

  That sounded rather worrying even to his own ear. Vadim got the same impression, judging by the alarmed, almost frightened look on his face. “Yeah?” he asked, drying a clean plate with a towel. “Something serious?”

  “Well … yes. Very.” It would be unfair if he tried to diminish the problem. “It’s about what we do. SM things, bondage stuff, all that. I don’t think it’s working out well.”

  “Have I done something wrong?” Vadim inquired. “Is it why we haven’t had sex lately? I knew I must have … displeased you somehow, but I have no idea what it was, I really don’t.”

  “No, that’s not what I was going to say,” Max hastened to assure him, disturbed by Vadim’s pleading tone. “It’s me. The problem is me, not you. I’ve never told you, but it’s my first SM relationship. I’ve dated before, but I’ve never been anyone’s Dom.”

  Vadim knitted his brows, clearly uncomprehending where the conversation was going. “So … I’m your first, in a way?”

  “You could say that, yeah. I’ve never had practice. Everything we’ve tried, that was a first time for me.”

  “Hmm. I should be flattered, I suppose, that you’ve chosen me.”

  Max let out a nervous chortle. “I’m afraid it’s not something to congratulate yourself for, me choosing you. I mistreated you—and not just once. I caused you harm. Not because I wanted to. Just because I’m a novice at this. Don’t say I didn’t. If you think, you’ll remember. All the times our scenes have gone wrong, it has been my fault. It’s hard to admit, but I’m not good for you. It looks like you don’t realize it yet, but it’s true. Maybe … maybe we should live separately for a while. So that you can figure things out.”

  “What am I to figure out, exactly?” Vadim inquired, his voice starting to shake. “The ways to lure you back? Do you want me to beg and snivel, is that it?”

  “No, of course not! It’s not a game. It’s for your own safety.”

  “Safety from what?”

  “From whom? Me. I feel like I’m a danger to you. I’m clueless. I’m clumsy. Maybe BDSM just isn’t my thing. Maybe I’m not suited for it.”

  “Oh,” Vadim breathed out as if a grim reve
lation had come upon him. “Oh. I get it. It’s just been fucking technique for you. You’ve tried everything you wanted and now you back off? No more BDSM for me, thanks!”

  “It’s not like that!” Max protested. It seemed he repeated this phrase too often, in different variations. “I like what we have. I do. But it would be egotistic of me to continue just because I enjoy it and to cause you further trouble.”

  Vadim huffed with indignation. “A nice description of a relationship. Further trouble.”

  Max flailed his hands in exasperation. “You’re not listening! That’s not what I meant.”

  They’d never had a proper quarrel before, not even once. Max was at a loss as to how to make Vadim calm down and pay attention to his reasoning. Should he go into his Dom mode and speak sternly? He didn’t want to. He hoped they could have a talk as friends. But Vadim didn’t look very friendly at the moment.

  “I get what you mean quite clearly,” he snapped. “You’re leaving. On whatever pretext. Okay. Fine. Leave then. Where, exactly, are you going, might I ask?” Then something suddenly changed in his expression. Irritation gave way to something else—deflated, wounded surprise. “Oh. You’ve already found a place to stay, am I right? How very thorough of you. You’ve planned it. Like everything you do. It’s … serious then?”

  Max nodded unhappily. “I know it must be a shock for you now. But when you think it all over—”

  “Looks like you’ve already done it for me. Thought it over. Made a decision.” Vadim’s voice was husky and bitter. “How very Dom-ly of you. Have you already packed your things?”

  “Not yet but…”

  “…but it won’t take long. I see.”

  They were silent for a while.

  “Listen—” Max began, but Vadim interrupted him. “I think you’ve said everything you needed to say. Just pack and leave if you want to.”

  And what else was there to add, really? Perhaps Vadim would see the situation more clearly when alone. Perhaps he’d understand why his Dom had to do it.

  Now that the talk was over, Max realized he’d been bracing himself against another kind of reaction. He’d expected Vadim to be angry because of what he’d already done, all the screw-ups, and him pretending to be a true Dom. Instead, Vadim seemed to be angry with what Max was about to do, like leaving was so much worse than abuse. How quaint. How sad.

  ****

  Max was determined to leave that very day. After all, he didn’t have too much stuff to take with him, and he’d already packed it once, recently, so there was no need to think about what was where. It troubled him that he should part with Vadim like that, after a fight, but he couldn’t stay.

  Their quarrel had been bad in and of itself, but what came afterwards was even more upsetting. While Max was busy with packing, Vadim settled on the bed, sulking and watching TV, or more exactly, switching between channels at random. He made no attempt to stop Max or to talk to him. For hours, the TV kept muttering something with different voices, most of them unbearably cheerful.

  Max cast guilty glances at Vadim now and then. He lay listlessly, arms around a pillow, face tucked into it. At last, Max couldn’t stand it anymore and sat down beside him. “I’m sorry. I truly am. But it’s for your sake, believe me. I do it because … damn, because I care! I want you to know it.” He gently touched Vadim’s shoulder, but Vadim shrugged his hand off angrily. Max sighed. “Listen, I don’t want it to be another bad break-up for you. You’re mad at me now, and maybe I deserve it. Maybe I should have done it another way, but I didn’t know how. The thing is, however you feel about me, I’m still your friend. I always will be. You can count on that.”

  Vadim didn’t respond.

  Max called a taxi and carried his bags and boxes down when it arrived, one by one. Vadim didn’t deign to get up and shut the door behind him, so Max told him he’d close the door himself and drop his keys in the letter box.

  In a taxi, sitting among his boxed stuff in a passenger seat, he stared out of a side window, unseeing. The journey was long, through all the traffic jams and then into the depths of the southern outskirts of Moscow.

  Funnily enough (or not funny at all, depending on how you chose to look at it), his new apartment cost him more than the one he’d had in the center of the city. Max wondered if Muscovites had standard prices for lodging. Apparently not.

  Unfortunately, this was his only option at the moment. He hadn’t had time for a methodical, unhurried search. The last time, he’d been able to be picky and reject quite a few offers until he’d found something suitable. His employers provided housing for staff in the first year of the contract, so he’d had a temporary accommodation while looking for a proper home. Now the situation was different. He would have felt vile if he lived at Vadim’s place while secretly planning to leave him but lingering until he discovered a perfect apartment. No, that wasn’t fair. A clean cut, fast and thus less painful—he owed Vadim that much.

  And fast it had been. Just a few hours—and Max was on his own.

  His new home was decorated with tasteless floral wallpaper and filled with mismatching Soviet-era furniture. The kitchen featured an aged dusty fridge and a not exactly spotless stove. A bit of cleaning wouldn’t hurt.

  Normally, Max would have thrown himself into tidying the apartment, sweeping and washing the floors covered with cheap lino, scrubbing the sink and bath, bringing things into order, neat freak that he was. But now he just sank into the squeaky sofa and sat there, apathetic and worn-out, and stared at the opposite wall.

  Yes, it should have been like making a clean cut, brief and efficient. Instead, it turned into an ugly itching wound.

  ****

  Vadim sent him an e-mail two days later—two days of unanswered text messages on Max’s part that could be summed into “Are you all right?” There was a selfie of Vadim lying naked in bed, stretching with catlike grace, his lean body all relaxed except for his nether parts, and ready to be ravished. The text read simply, “Come back?” Max answered with a long, messy letter, repeating what he’d already told him, and then sent another one, to explain himself better, yet no words seemed good enough.

  Max wondered if he should call, but it was Vadim who called first, a day later.

  When Max picked up the phone, there was silence for a moment, then a sharp, brisk, “Could we meet? To talk things over?”

  “Yeah. I suppose,” Max said weakly.

  “Will you come home? I mean to my place?”

  Max hesitated. “I don’t think it’s a good idea. Maybe it would be better to get together on some neutral ground, so to say. It would keep us both calm.”

  “Maybe you’d come to my office then? We could dine together. Sort of.”

  Max agreed. He dreaded the talk awfully, but it had to be done.

  Vadim’s firm resided in a peculiar place on the cape of the Bolotny Island called Strelka, which meant a tip, right opposite the glittering domes of the restored Cathedral of Christ the Savior. The famous Red October chocolate factory once operated there. Its red-brick compound was still standing, but the confectionery production had moved out, and now the site hosted offices, clubs, and bars.

  Finding a way in a maze of its courtyards could be somewhat of a challenge, according to Vadim, but he’d provided Max with a detailed description of how to get to him. From the Kropotkinskaya metro station, Max took the exit to the Cathedral of Christ the Savior, walked around it, and crossed a pedestrian bridge that probably got crowded with tourists in summer, all of them taking pictures of the Kremlin in the distance. Now the bridge was empty. The weather was too windy and cloudy, and being outside was generally unpleasant. No proper frost, but a slightly-below-zero wet chilliness that made Max shudder and repeatedly adjust his scarf to no avail. It felt lonely here, or maybe it was just him projecting his mood onto the surroundings.

  He was glad to run down the bridge stairs and out of the wind, but it took him some time to find the right building hidden in a yard. The empty alleys
lined with rough block walls seemed unwelcoming, and Max felt all the more nervous. He was cold through and through when he finally pressed a bell beside a nondescript metallic door, wondering if it was the one he needed. He waited and waited and waited. It was Vadim himself who finally let him in. He looked boyishly handsome in a casual green sweater and jeans. It was a sudden stab in the heart to see him.

  “No suit?” Max asked instead of a greeting.

  “No clients for today. You’re the only visitor. Come in. Will you wait for me, just for ten minutes at most? I have to finish something. And then we’ll go out.”

  The interior looked somewhat industrial. The owners obviously relished the décor of the former factory. The ceiling was left raw, with exposed ventilation pipes and glowing halo lamps hanging down. Wooden floors, glass partitions, red brick walls, a bit of a mess of books and papers on open shelves, simple office furniture.

  Vadim pointed at a framed picture of a cozy country house on the wall opposite his table. “I make other people’s lives comfortable and well-organized while mine is an absolute mess. Funny, isn’t it?”

  “Is it your project?”

  Vadim nodded curtly. “Not quite classy, I know. Nothing like Frank Gehry or Norman Foster.”

  “I like it, actually.”

  Vadim shrugged as if it were just polite words he’d expected, but Max was sincere in his praise. The building had character, unlike many modern cottage villages outside Moscow, identical and dull. Seeing it, you thought of long summer evenings on its terrace, of tea and home-baked biscuits, a sleepy, contented dog at your feet, and someone waiting for you inside. It looked like home, not just a building. Wasn’t it strange that Vadim, with his slightly self-destructive tendencies, should wish to create something like this?

  Max sat there, short of words, and watched Vadim working. Such a familiar sight. Max fought the urge to come closer and stand beside him, to smoothen his reddish-auburn hair, to take a look at what was on his monitor.

  How would it be between them? Would they sit in a café and chat over freshly-brewed coffee, like exes did, resigned to the fact they were exes now, nothing more? It felt wrong, but hadn’t he proposed it?