CREATURE

・chapter 21・

Roman smothered an irritated groan into his pillow and pulled the covers over his head, cursing himself for not being able to fall asleep. He had been tossing and turning for what felt like hours, with nothing but darkness and the distant hum of the city to pass the time. He had yet to come up with an explanation for his insomnia, or at least an explanation he found acceptable enough to acknowledge.

He'd be lying if he claimed what he'd learned earlier in the evening about Asya's secretive parentage wasn't weighing on him, but he refused to believe that was keeping him awake. No, it wasn't like him at all to get distracted by stuff like that, and given his troubled history with insomnia, he had a feeling it had more to do with something else that had been bothering him.

Ever since stepping into the Royal Opera House's auditorium two weeks earlier, he'd developed a renewed ache to perform again. The tour had sated some of that craving, but he missed the rush of performing in a fully-packed theatre in ways words couldn't adequately capture. For as long as he could remember he spent anywhere between four to six nights a week on stage, doing what he'd been training to all his life. The lights and adrenalin drained him until he was blissfully empty and exhausted, too numb to feel anything by the time he got home in the early morning hours.

But because he wasn't performing yet the nights felt like they dragged on forever, not to mention that watching everyone else get to perform wasn't making it any easier. He'd never been sidelined from anything, and being shut out of the place he used to rule stirred a self-inflicted jealousy utterly unfamiliar to him.

Having to wait before he took on the Opera House probably wasn't solely a bad thing. It gave him time to get back into shape and work up an appetite for the applause. Besides, he had a contract that took care of that for him, and that contract explicitly stated he wasn't returning to the iconic theatre until the new year. Sadly that contract didn't stop him from losing his mind every night he had to come home instead of getting ready for the stage.

He rolled over and buried his face in the sheets, desperately trying to make himself see sense so he could get some sleep. London was supposed to be his fresh start away from the drugs, endless performing and constant toying with his limits. Bastian had offered him the keys to the kingdom, allocated his best coach to train with him, he could pick his roles, and pick his partners too. He had no logical reason to be feeling restless, and yet the integral missing piece to his routine was driving him insane. Knowing himself, it wasn't going to stop wreaking havoc on him and his sleep until he did something about it.

He propped himself up on his elbows and checked the time, realising with a disappointing sink in his stomach that it was already pushing into the early morning hours. That meant he'd been laying in the dark for far too long, and come to think of it, that just wasn't healthy.

With an agitated sigh he got up and changed before making his way down the box-strewn passage that led to the kitchen. In the dark he ended up tripping over one of the boxes, and as he glared warningly down at it he realised that he actually recognized that particular one. At the top someone had written his name, and stamped the cardboard with a familiar insignia.

Bolshoi Theatre of Russia

He didn't need to open it to know what was inside, but he did know that he was by no means in the right headspace to be dealing with all that. No, the lousy boxes were going to have to wait until he found a way to make his peace with the past.

Without tempting himself any further he headed to the entryway, shrugged on his coat and snatched his keys off the dining table before treading downstairs to the lobby of his building. On his way out he greeted the nighttime receptionist, who thankfully didn't bother questioning why he was up at such an unusual hour.