The Mist and the Lightning. Part 19

Seeing Nik coming into their room, Kors hurriedly tossed away his freshly lit cigarette and shied away. His doll-like boy’s face didn’t bode well, and Kors, in some mad attempt to delay the inevitable, rushed to the bathroom and locked himself in. An absurd thought was pounding in his head that maybe Nik could calm down a little later, cool down, as usual, and everything would work out. The main thing is to take the time. Therefore, Kors locked the door and quickly moved a nightstand and a closet to it, barricading himself in this way. But alas, his plan didn’t work. The door flew off its hinges with a crash from the impact of superhuman force, the bedside table and whatnot flew off with a roar and fell to the floor, falling apart. Kors didn’t know where to run, finding himself in a small room, as if in a trap. Nik entered, grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and threw him against the wall. Kors crashed into the closet, trying to cover his head and face with his hands. Glass vials rained down on him from the shelves, a tin box banged on the top of his head and opened to sprinkle toothpowder on him. Before Kors had time to recover, Nik grabbed him again and threw him against the opposite wall. Now Kors stumbled over the basket of towels, buckets and basins. The crashing sound was unimaginable. Nik approached again and threw him against the wall again. Bang! Bang! Bang! Kors slammed first into one wall, then into another, and so on in a circle, without a break, crashing into furnishings and involuntarily destroying everything around. Before he had time to get up and do anything, Nik was already grabbing him and smashing him again. Finally, Nik threw Kors to the floor and kicked him hard in the ribs and in the stomach several times. Grabbing the base of his disheveled tail, Nik threw back his head and punched him in the eye, jaw, and temple.

“Once again you dare not obey me the first time … the second time I will never repeat again,” Nik hissed, “this was the first and last time.”

“Sorry, sorry, it’s just this lie… Peace has deceived me, and Kamiel, he’s alive…” Kors muttered pathetically, trying to regain his breath.

“Yes, I don’t give a shit about it! You didn’t obey me!” Nik yelled at him.

“I was stunned by this deception!”

“Eh, everyone around deceives you! Didn’t you notice? Because you can’t see beyond your noble nose! You only know how to lift it up!”

“Yes, I was stupid when I didn’t watch the events right away and, believing Zagpeace, I thought that Varakh had died… and didn’t even try to check and listen to him…”

“And who is to blame for this?” Nik asked, stepping away from him.

“I, myself,” Kors sat on the floor of the ruined room, bowing his head in humiliation. He was beaten again, his beautiful face was smashed again, he was deceived again! Kors curled up into a ball, covering his face with his hands, and, unable to restrain himself, began to cry.

Chapter 18

Nik approached, and, lifting Kors from behind by the armpits. He was unresisting, limp as a sack of flour, and Nik dragged him into the room to their bed.

“Vitor, get up!”

Kors languidly got up, and Nik, seating him on the edge of the bed, began to unfasten the numerous belts and buckles on him, remove the weapon from Kors’belt — his sword and iron rod:

“Well, stop it, don’t cry, that’s all, that’s all, I won’t do it anymore,” he repeated, undressing Kors and doing it affectionately. Nik knelt down in front of his father and began to pull off his boots. Kors felt a little better. Sniffing, he wiped the tears from his eyes with his palm.

“Lie down. You need to calm down and rest,” Nik said, rising from his knees and pressing Kors on the shoulders, laying him on his side.

“Just don’t put me to sleep, please!” Kors was scared. He really didn’t like it when the Demon, without warning, deprived him of control over consciousness, throwing him into oblivion.

“Okay, I won’t,” Nik walked around the bed and also began to undress: he took off his weapon, jacket and boots and lay down on the other side. He just lay on his back, not moving, staring up at the ceiling while Kors stared at his face. He looked at his chain hanging from his cheek, at two well-marked holes in the nostril left from thick rings, looked at the black tattoos on his cheekbones, slightly faded from time, and understood that, no matter what the circumstances, he would never be able to stop loving his Nik. His Demon — Nikto.

“Come on, Vitor, I have asked you,” Nik said without changing his position and continuing to look at the ceiling. “Calm down, read your poem in your head, as you usually do.”

“So you can hear it?” Kors felt as if Nik had taken him by surprise for something very personal.

“Well, of course,” Nik smiled slightly, “you thought it up great.”

“Oh, Nik, there is nothing good in this — stupidly repeating the same thing, just to not think about the bad. And you know, I don’t even like it!”

“You don’t like it? But why? It is beautiful as well.”