Trapped in Lace (lgbt)

Ch 6

Days turn to weeks and Mikhail grows stronger as time continues its fluidity. His wound is nearly completely healed by the end of the first week and there is nothing left but a raised pink scar he traces with gentle fingers each morning. Whenever he closes his eyes, he can remember the pain, the sting and the ache. What is worse is the ever-growing heaviness in his chest.

He wakes one particular morning to find red seeping between his thighs. He stares at the scarlet as if it were foreign.

"Blood," he whispers to himself, "it is just blood."

He bites his lip to try and stop the burning of tears tickling his nose.

He's used to this, at least he should be. It has been an ongoing occurrence since he was but thirteen.

With a sigh he looks around. He has taken to wearing Antony's clothing seeing as he lost his own. He doesn't know what he should do. He cannot just go up to the man and ask for rags of all things. It would give him away and it will no doubt change Antony's view of him. He has gained an unlikely friend in the man and he's afraid of letting that go just because... because he is different.

He could sneak into the servers' quarters and ask one of the maidservants for help. But that will start talk. And he is all too aware of how word travels fast.

He paces back and forth in his room, feeling the slick of blood continue to stain his thighs. He cleans as best he can, but he can only do so much. Then there is the matter of the sheets. What in God's name is he going to do?

"Burn it?" He wonders aloud.

A knock startles him from his musings and he looks around in a panic.

"Lord Mikhail?"

"Oh fuck," Mikhail curses softly, immediately after calling out an audible, "Yes?"

"Breakfast will be served soon," the maidservant replies, perhaps waiting for a go ahead to allow entrance or for him to open the doors himself.

Mikhail briskly walks to the doors and does the opposite as he presses his body to them. He isn't ready, he's not even binding yet.

"I umm, I do not wish to be rude, but can you tell Lord Antony I am feeling unwell and will have to skip breakfast."

"Of course, my lord," the woman responds.

If Mikhail had half a braincell left, he would have realized his mistake the moment the words left his mouth. He doesn't though, not until a heavy knock rattles his bones. All Mikhail can do is stare at the doors in shock.

He's sure it hasn't even been five minutes since the maidservant left.

"Mikhail?"

He can't help but whisper breathlessly, "Antony."

"Mikhail? Mikhail are you alright? Open the door," the man orders, voice full of concern the longer Mikhail stands dumbfounded and with no reply.

Mikhail looks around the room. It is a mess. He has bunched up the bloodied sheets in a far corner and he's still only wearing one of Antony's shirt, no binder and with blood cooling on his skin.

He feels too overwhelmed and he can't help but to press his back against the wall before sinking atop of the bloody sheets. He brings his knees to his chest as he attempts and fails to regain his breathing again.

"Mikhail? Mikhail!"

He closes his eyes and tries for a shuddering breath, but it hurts and he can't focus. He doesn't even realize when the doors are broken in. All he knows is that there is a rush of footsteps, a pause as Antony searches and finds his crumpled figure on the floor, and finally Antony is kneeling before him.

"Mikhail," the relief in the man's tone is practically palpable.

Mikhail still can't bring himself to look up though.

"What is wrong?" Antony asks softly, trying not to startle the younger man. He reaches out but pauses when the younger flinches at the touch. The movement is enough to draw his attention to the sheets beneath Mikhail.

Blood.

Red.

Bright.

"Jesus," Antony inhales sharply, "Are you hurt? Is it your wound?"

Mikhail can only manage a weak shake of his head.

"Mikhail," Antony begins, "Talk to me."

Mikhail chooses not to. There is nothing he can say. What can he say?

Antony tries to digest the scene. He reaches toward Mikhail once more and there is no resistance when he tugs at the arm leading to where he knows Mikhail was injured.

The shirt, not completely buttoned, falls open.

At first, he's not sure what he's looking at.

He can see the wound is intact and healing, but his gaze is focused on something that should not be there. It makes Mikhail self-conscious as he crosses his arms over his chest in a poor attempt to hide.

"You're a w -"

"No," Mikhail finally speaks, "I am not."

"Are you hiding then? To do such a thing, cut your hair and masquerade in publi-"

"I am not, my life is not a circus, it is not entertainment. I am a man," Mikhail sneers.

There's a fire in his eyes as he stands, knocking Antony off guard.

"I thank you for your hospitality, but I shall take my leave and figure this out on my own," Mikhail begins, wincing when a cramp grips his midriff tight.

He tangles himself in the sheets and Antony catches him before he further hurts himself.

"I apologize," Antony frowns.

Mikhail stops, brows furrowed in confusion, "for what?"

Antony doesn't answer right away, he does eventually, and it surprises Mikhail, "For making assumptions. You are a man regardless of how you were born, I should respect you as you are."

Mikhail feels the fight seep out of his tense body and a weight is lifted off his shoulders, "You... are not mad?"

Antony snorts, "Mad? No. Confused? Perhaps. You should be more careful, Mikhail, in the wrong eyes and this could be considered treason."

"I am not... I'm not plotting," Mikhail insists.

"I know," Antony says, voice gentle in that tone that makes Mikhail's heart beat just a bit faster.

"Is this what you are running from? The scrutiny and expectations ascribed of your sex?"

Mikhail finally nods, "I'm sorry I lied."

"From the beginning we both knew you did," Antony assures, "And we both know you are a horrendous liar, no harm done."

That brings a small smile to Mikhail's pale face.

"Are you alright?" Antony asks once more.

"I will survive," Mikhail responds dismissively.

"I am sure," Antony hums, though he still hovers.

"I'm sorry about the mess," Mikhail finally whispers in embarrassment.

"Come," Antony prompts.

Mikhail follows Antony. The man shrugs off his jacket, leaving him in only his burgundy brocaded waistcoat and buttoned white shirt. He gently wraps Mikhail in his jacket to hide him from prying eyes who are not privy to the word privacy.

Mikhail takes a deep breath as he basks in the warmth that is Antony.

"I'll have the servants take care your room," Antony reassures, "is there anything you need?"

"Ra-Rags," Mikhail mumbles bashfully.

Antony does not feign to understand the discomfort Mikhail is in, but he knows how to ease it and he'll make sure to show Mikhail how much he cares.