I'm Keeping the Kitten

Nikolai

The gentle pressure of my babies laying on my chest was welcomed, even if they somehow managed to be laying on a large, purple bruise. I closed my eyes and remembered the kiss, and the anxiety attack that had followed not too long after, complete with hyperventilating and heavy sobs. Remembering my weak spot, Gallagher had run the heel of his hand up and down my spine slowly, vertebrate by vertebrate.

After that, he left me alone and we hadn’t spoken since.

“NiNi,” Turner’s low voice cooed from my bedside, and I opened my eyes, grinning at the wet older boy.

“You take long showers.”

He laughed. “There’s a lot of me. Unlike you, shrimp.” I furrowed my brows and looked down at myself.

“I am not a . . . shrimp.”

“It’s just one of those weird American phrases. Since shrimp are so tiny, it’s just saying you’re small, basically. It can be endearing.”

“Oh.”

Americans are weird.

“Well what do your friends and family call you back home in Russia?”

“A lot of things.”

“What are the two most common?”

“Kolya and Nika. My dad calls me ‘Kola,’ which is like a bastardized version of Kolya because his Russian is atrocious.”

“You’ll have to teach me sometime.”

“Alright.” I grinned and slid the kittens off my chest and rolled out of bed. “Want some breakfast?”

“Sure thing.” Still shirtless, Turner followed me to the kitchen. I picked the mail up off the island and went through it, seeing mostly bills for my dad, a couple things for Gallagher and one letter for me. I froze, staring at the curling but neat script spelling out my name in somewhat clumsy English letters. Confused, I ripped the envelope open, a letter in the Cyrillic alphabet fluttering out. Before it could hit the ground, I picked it up, putting my hand back in the envelope and pulling out a thin, silver chain with a pendant dangling from the end. I hadn’t seen that necklace in years . . .

The letter was short.



Such a fitting way to begin a letter, no? I can imagine your shocked, anxiety-ridden face now, it almost makes me laugh, your eyes bugging out, mouth dropping open. I figured you’d be missing your necklace, and what better time to give it back? Now your heart is starting to race and you wonder how I got your address, now your hands are shaking and the person in the room with you is asking you what’s wrong. Are your scars throbbing? Are you having flashbacks and remembering everything?
Even so far away, you always make me smile, little Nika. Drop by and see me sometime, won’t you?

-- Peter

My vision went fuzzy and my heart began to pound, a searing pain moving into my chest, making it harder to breathe. I couldn’t stop shaking and Turner’s words barely registered before his arms were wrapping around my body, trying to get my functions back to normal. His warm hands trailed up and down my spine and slowly I calmed.

“What’s wrong?”

“I—I want to be alone,” I murmured.

“Call me later, alright?” He demanded, and I nodded. One of the many things I appreciated about Turner was his ability to respect my wishes. I thought back to the bottle of pills beneath my mattress, realizing there was no way in hell I could make it without them. Sighing, I opened the kitchen drawer, digging around for a minute before realizing I had given them to Gallagher to hold onto.

At the moment, my brother was with that hateful creature Faraday, but I figured he would have put them in his closet and decided to just go grab them and be in and out.

Gallagher’s closet was huge, but there weren’t many places the scissors could be, I decided, so I went to the most obvious places. The door shut behind me, but there was enough light filtering in that I could see just fine and thought nothing of it. Until I heard voices.

“Baby, calm down.” Gallagher.

“What if I don’t want to? What if all I want is your big, th—” The sound of kissing interrupted whatever Faraday was about to say. I cursed silently and shifted so that I was hidden amongst the clothes, knowing there was no way to just stroll out when he was in his room getting . . . hot and heavy with Faraday. Their activities weren’t quiet, and trying to block them out was proving difficult, especially when Faraday began whining at Gallagher about hurrying up.

“I don’t want nice, soft foreplay and stretching,” he panted, “I just want you to fuck me!”

A groan, and the bed creaked, followed by a loud moan. I closed my eyes and put my hands over my ears, his words coming back. You’ll never have this. Even though Gallagher had kissed me, he was still having sex with Faraday. Who was right. I wasn’t Gallagher’s . . . anything, anymore. Just an emotionally weak person that shared the same living space. I couldn’t even be proper brothers with him, much less anything else. He had Faraday, now.

I wanted to cry, but that would just be proving every negative comment right. I was too sensitive and weak, I needed to be a man and take care of myself instead of depending on someone or something else. Those comments sunk deep into me and I started to wonder if I really could be strong without anyone or anything. Without my Centrax or the reassurances of friends or a brother-lover. No, not could I, I had to be. For myself. There, in that closet, listening to my brother’s lover scream like no one could hear, I came to the decision that I could be independent, and that I could handle my anxiety without pills. At least, that was the hope.