Trapped in Lace (lgbt)

Ch 3

He loses track of time. His legs cramp up and he cannot go on, he needs to stop if only to catch his breath. The wound of his shoulder is throbbing, and the lightheadedness has only worsened as night turns into day and again and again as if on repeat.

He slumps against the bark of a tree trunk and closes his eyes. He can hear the bustling of life just beyond the threshold of foliage. He can push himself just a bit more, but he fears he has already pushed passed his limits.

He shrugs on his slipping bag onto his good shoulder and takes a couple more steps. He pauses as he enters the thriving town. It is not unlike his home city where he was born and raised.  However it is smaller, less bustling and more rural.  Filled with new people, new faces he has yet to learn. This is a blank slate, if only for a brief moment. This is a place where no one knows his name, his face, his life. He can build himself here, he can break his old self down.

He looks both ways before crossing the street. He enters a tavern-esk establishment. He would never be caught dead in a place like this back home. His parents would have a conniption if they were made aware of him being a place where ladies were not allowed.

But he was not a lady. Not here.

He almost feels giddy.

"How can I help you, young man?" the tender asks.

Mikhail slips into a chair at the bar and he looks around, trying to decide what he wants. He tries not to let the words phase him, but he cannot deny the feeling of acceptance in his chest.

"Do you have anything to eat?" He asks with a tilt of his head, the hood of his cloak slipping down.

"Of course," the woman nods, "what're you in the mood for?"

Mikhail bites his lip, "something light perhaps."

He can feel the weight of the coin-pouch strapped around his waist. The tender returns with some broth and vegetables. He pays up front, handing off and chipping away at what was once his dowry.

"Thank you," he smiles politely.

The food is rather tasteless. It can only be described as lukewarm water with no flavor whatsoever and steamed veggies. He thinks he hides his distaste well enough.

"Where're you coming from?" the woman asks in an attempt of polite conversation.

"Far," is all Mikhail offers, slurping at the water.

"Ooh mysterious," she chuckles, "and where, pray-tell, are you headed boy?"

"I do not know yet, ma'm," he answers truthfully, "I am simply trying to find home."

More like run away from it, he muses.

They leave it at that and he takes his leave after only eating half of the food provided. He would ask for a medic, but he does not want to raise any more suspicions. He does not want them to think they have a fugitive in town, for what other reason should he be injured and running?

So, he goes behind the small shop and begins undressing. He lets his cloak fall and then he peels the shirt stuck to his skin from the drying blood. He finally chances a glance down and he prides himself in not throwing up what little he had to eat. He is sure the food will be less pleasant coming back up than going down.

He hisses and whines as he cleans the wound with water from his waterskin and some cloth. He's not sure if the bullet is truly embedded in his skin, but there is no exit hole to determine otherwise. He tries not to think much of it. He truly needs to seek medical attention though.

"Well look at what we have here," a leery voice growls.

Mikhail looks up with wide eyes, like a doe caught by a hunter.

"What an odd boy, dressed as you are," another scorns.

Mikhail attempts to hide his body from further view.

"We saw that pretty pouch of yours," the first continues, "hefty it seems."

Instinctively, Mikhail grips the little bag with all the money meant to be his dowry.

"I do think it will be better kept if you handed it over to me."

Mikhail shakes his head, "this is mine."

"Oh?"

"And he speaks!"

"High pitched, bet his balls haven't even dropped yet."

Mikhail blushes at the inappropriate jeers and he tries to shuffle back. But he is acutely aware that there is nowhere he can go, nowhere he can hide.

There is no one to protect him.

No one but himself.

He tries to dash in between the men. Foolish he knows, as one grasps his bicep tight and flings him back.

A cry escapes him as he lands on his wounded side on the bricked alley.

The men are quick to pounce.

He struggles and fights, like hell he will just give in. He pulls at the coin-pouch, but he's too weak and the blood loss has not done him any favors.

They steal everything.

They take the money and his bag of clothing.

The only thing he has left, by some miracle, is his virtue and the scraps of clothing on his back.

He sighs and lets his head fall back.

"Fuck," he curses softly.

And he almost covers his mouth out of habit for saying such a word. But it is the only way he can describe the situation he is in.

No money and with nowhere to go... he is screwed.

Royally so.

With a humph, he drags himself up and wanders aimlessly through town. People stare at him and avoid him as he passes by. He looks like a mess, a wreck. Blooded and bruised and poor. He's filthy and he stinks. Sweat makes his greasy hair stick to his forehead and in all other directions. He needs shelter, he needs a bath and proper food to fill his belly.

He stumbles and when he looks around, he is not quite sure where he is.

He is surrounded by nothing but trees.

Endless trees and dark skies.

It no longer feels safe, the branches are no longer beckoning him with their promise of shelter and safety. No, they are reaching out to devour him.

He wants to go home.

He wants... he wants...

His vision is blurred with tears of anguish. He aches and hurts in the worst way possible. He feels all too hot and yet too cold. He is unsure of what is left or right, up or down. Yet he perseveres until he's crashing into something, nay, someone.

A hand reaches out and lands on his waist, just below his ribs.

The other stops his tumble.

He looks up and sees the darkest shade of brown, nearly black, engulfing cold eyes. And all he can feel is a relief that is once again cut short as he is pushed away, a gun pointed at his chest.

He looks wide-eyed at the man. Ash blond hair tousled yet perfect, darkening eyes narrowing on his person.

"Who are you? State your business," the man orders, voice thick with an accent Mikhail can't quite identify.

"I-" He can't answer. His vision is swimming and he's losing focus.

He feels the familiar warmth of blood seeping from his aggravated wound. He whimpers. Everything is catching up to him. Everything is too much.

The man cocks the gun and Mikhail is sure he is going to die.

He closes his eyes and allows the dark to swallow him.

Maybe this way, he will no longer feel the pain.  But even then he knew it was a losing battle.  He has been numb for quite some time now.  Now it was just time to let go.