***

"Are you mad? Sorry, I couldn't call earlier..."

Ethelstan's pleasant, languid voice woke Rikald. He opened his eyes slightly, grimacing from a headache, and looked at the guy sitting in the chair.

Ethel was wearing only jeans. Droplets of water glistened on his bare torso, dripping from the tips of his wet hair. The guy's face looked serene, and a dreamy smile played on his lips.

How handsome he is!

Rika's heart ached with longing. He would never get a guy like that.

"I can't. In three hours, I need to be at the airport. If I don't fly to Paris with my mom, she won't forgive me."

The guy pressed a flat phone tightly to his ear, simultaneously drying his hair with a towel.

Ethel's interlocutor said something, but Rika couldn't make out the words.

"It's your fault," the guy replied sadly and, after listening to a rather long tirade, asked: "What was I doing? Nothing special."

He looked at Rikald and smiled gently. Rika quickly shut his eyes, afraid of giving himself away.

Did Ethel notice his gaze? Or was the guy blinded by the nightlight?

Not wanting to tempt fate, Rika continued to pretend to be asleep.

"Go to bed already; see you at school," Ethelstan's voice sounded again. "I'll call you in the morning from the airport. I promise." Pause. "I promise you." Pause. "Okay, okay, I swear. Happy now?" Pause. A light chuckle. "Good night."

Rika heard the guy put the phone on the table and approach the bed. A few moments of nothing, and then Ethelstan lifted the edge of the blanket and, climbing under it, pulled Rika to him.

"So warm," the guy exhaled and fell silent.

And within minutes, he was peacefully snoring, nuzzling Rika's neck.

Rika lay still, savoring every moment. His heart pounded wildly in his chest. His skin was constantly covered in pleasant goosebumps. And a tender warmth spread through his soul.

No one had ever hugged him so gently. No one had ever endured his antics with such patience. And certainly, no one had ever tried to comfort him just by holding him.

But Ethel was a special person. So kind, sweet, and responsive... He protected Rika, comforted him, and then peacefully fell asleep next to him.

Rikald understood perfectly well that this fairy tale could not have a continuation. He knew that in the morning, this magical dream would dissolve into nothing. And so he firmly decided not to sleep, to enjoy Ethel's closeness as long as possible.

"Ethelstan," he whispered almost inaudibly.

What a beautiful name, like that of an angel or deity.

Very carefully, so as not to wake the guy, Rika covered Ethel's cool fingers with his palm. And his heart immediately responded to this innocent action with a frantic beat.

"Please, whoever is up there in heaven, let this story continue..." he whispered continuously, understanding how hopeless this wish was, but still hoping for the mercy of higher powers.

And when dawn broke outside the window, a heavy sleep finally overtook him.

***

Rika woke up when it was already light outside.

Sunbeams broke through the thick curtains, but the room was still dim.

The guy fidgeted on the bed and realized he was lying alone. Ethelstan was nowhere to be seen.

"Good morning," came a tired male voice.

Startled, Rika jumped up and sat on the bed, but the sudden movement made him dizzy. The room spun before his eyes, and nausea rose to his throat. He squeezed his temples with his hands, trying to stop the spinning.

"Who are you?" Rikald asked hoarsely when his vision cleared a little.

In the chair where Ethelstan had sat at night, there was now a young dark-haired man in a formal suit. However, his clothes were somewhat disheveled.

The jacket was open, the tie lay on the armrest of the chair, and the shirt, unbuttoned three buttons down, revealed the upper part of his chest.

The relaxed posture and sleepy look suggested that the man had been dozing until Rika woke him. This was further evidenced by the red mark on his attractive face, left by the hand he had used to prop his cheek.

Rika was sure he had met this man before. But where? Vague images swirled in his head, but they refused to form a clear picture.

"Don't you remember me?" the man asked, stretching his shoulders.

"Vaguely," Rikald replied, feeling horribly awkward as he crawled out from under the blanket.

"I'm Ethelstan's stepfather. He asked me to look after you. Is your head hurting?"

"I don't know," the guy replied. "I'm a little nauseous."

"Here..." the man pulled a strip of effervescent aspirin from his jacket pocket and placed it on the table. "Take this. You'll feel better. Do you live nearby?"

Rika shrugged.

"I don't know. I don't remember how I got here."

The man nodded understandingly.

"I'll give you money for a cab. There are always a few cars near the club."

"No need..." Rika squeezed out. "You don't have to..."

"I don't have to, but Ethelstan asked me to take care of you. By the way, he left you a note."

The man stood up, approached the bed, and placed several crisp bills and a folded piece of paper on the nightstand.

"Your breakfast will be brought up shortly. When you're done eating, my assistant will show you the way out. You can take a shower if you want. And when you get home, make sure to see a doctor. Does your family have the means?"

"Enough for a doctor," Rika quickly blurted out, afraid the man might offer him money again. "Thank you."

"Well, then, I'll be going. If you have any questions or requests, speak to Michel. He'll be here soon."

"Thank you," Rikald repeated.

"You're welcome," the man replied and left.

Rika sat staring into space for several minutes, and then reached for the note. However, a persistent knock on the door stopped him.

The guy opened the door to find a young man dressed as a bartender.

The man brought in a tray with the promised breakfast and set it on the coffee table.

"My name is Michel," he introduced himself, looking impassively at Rika. "When you're ready to leave, just press the button on the nightstand, and I'll come for you. If you need anything, just let me know."

"Thank you," the guy nodded, feeling awkward again.

Strangers were taking care of him, offering help. And he couldn't even properly express his gratitude. Rika understood that they were fussing over him only because Ethelstan had asked them to. And still, he was grateful for their attention.

Michel, satisfied with his response, left the room, closing the door behind him. Rika dissolved the aspirin in a glass of water and drank it in one gulp, only now realizing how thirsty he had been.

His stomach accepted the medicine graciously. But before starting on his breakfast, Rika decided to read the note.

Unfolding the paper, he stared at the single short sentence written in neat handwriting and felt like crying again.

«Please, take care of yourself».

The letters blurred before his eyes, but the guy didn't let himself break down.

Of course, he hadn't expected Ethelstan to leave him a phone number or arrange another meeting. That would have been foolish of him. But he had still hoped the guy would give him at least a tiny chance for further acquaintance.

However, his hopes were not justified.

Deeply upset, Rika couldn't bring himself to eat. He just picked at his food, trying to fight off the nausea. But eventually, he gave up and decided it was time to leave.

His mom was probably going crazy, not knowing where he was. And his sister was likely worried sick about him.

He needed to pull himself together and go home. Otherwise, his mom might take out her anger on Etid, and he couldn't allow that.

Sighing heavily, Rika pocketed the cab money and Ethelstan's note, and called for Michel.

The man arrived within minutes and led him out of the club through the staff entrance.

"You'll find cabs around the corner," Michel said, pointing the way.

Rika thanked him again and asked if he knew how to contact Ethelstan.

"I don't think I can disclose that information," the man replied. "Besides, Ethelstan flew to Paris this morning and won't be back for a week. If you want, you can leave him your phone number. I'll pass it on."

"No," Rika shook his head, "probably not worth it. Thank you for everything. And please, tell Ethel I'm very grateful."

The man nodded and returned to the club, while Rika trudged in the indicated direction.

Snow had begun to fall. Fluffy snowflakes fell so thickly that they turned the figures of the few passersby into blurry black spots. And Rika felt like walking a bit to clear his head and shake off the hangover before the scolding that awaited him at home.

Determining his direction by road signs and street names, the guy headed towards his school.

But less than half an hour later, he got lost, ending up in another dead end.

However, instead of a garbage dump, there was a small brick annex in this alley, with a loud sign above the door that read: "TATTOO Parlor."

The place barely qualified as a parlor; it was more like a shoe repair shop, but Rika decided to check it out anyway.

He had long dreamed of getting a tattoo, but without written permission from his mom, legal parlors always showed him the door.

However, in South Bronx, considered the most criminal neighborhood in the city, he hoped for more lenient service.

The parlor's reception area was dark and gloomy. Photos of various body parts adorned the walls, each showcasing different designs. A slightly open door led from the reception area into the parlor, which Rika peeked through.

The room contained a chair-bed, a stool, a table, and a tray with needles and ink. The walls were painted blue, the lighting was bright, and the room itself looked clean and tidy.

In the corner, on a couch, sat a tall, heavy man with a substantial belly and an equally impressive beard. He wore dark jeans and a gray sweater, along with a spotless white apron. The man's shaved head glistened under the bright lights, and his tattoo-covered arms held a notebook and pencil.

"Good morning," Rika greeted, stepping over the threshold.

The man lifted his gaze from the notebook and silently scrutinized the guy with his round black eyes for a few seconds.

"Got money?" he asked in a gruff, deep voice.

"Got it," Rika showed the bills.

"Take a seat," the master indicated the chair, and then asked matter-of-factly: "Tattoo? Piercing?"

"I want a tattoo," Rika said, climbing into the chair, hardly believing his luck.

"Did Mr. Roger send you?" The man asked, and Rika lied that he did.

"Everyone calls me Bull. And you?"

"Clive," Rika lied again.

"What kind of tattoo do you want, Clive? Something special? Symbolic?"

"I don't know... I haven't decided yet. Can you show me a catalog?"

"I don't work with a catalog. Didn't Mr. Roger tell you?"

Bull gave the guy a suspicious look.

"He was in a hurry. Must have forgotten," Rika lowered his eyes. "Can you suggest something?"

The man frowned and gave the guy an appraising look, lingering on his battered face and the handprint on his neck.

"Rough night?" He nodded understandingly. "Looking for comfort and self-expression?"

Rika shrugged uncertainly, looking hopefully at the master.

"I've been dumped," he complained. "But I still want to keep something to remember him by. Something special, that will disappear only with me."

Bull pondered for a moment, stroking his beard and staring at the ceiling as if it held the answers to all his questions. Then he asked without looking down:

"Would you want him to come back to you?"

"Yes, I want to see him. But he won't come back to me. And it hurts. We'll never meet again. We're from different worlds."

"Is he rich?"

"I think so. No, I'm sure. Have you thought of something?"

"Yes," Bull beamed, smiling like an enthusiastic maniac. "Ready to trust my experience?"

"Just not beyond the money I have with me," Rika asked.

"Oh, don't worry! Mr. Roger will cover the rest if needed."

Rikald blushed. He didn't know who Mr. Roger was, but he was embarrassed to get a tattoo at his expense.

But it was too late to back out.

Bull washed his hands, wiped the needles with alcohol, and sat on the stool next to the chair-bed.

"Take off your sweater and tilt your head back," he said.

Rika took a deep breath and nodded, psyching himself up. Then he undressed and closed his eyes, allowing the man to work his art.

***

Rikald stepped out of the salon on shaky legs. What Bull had done amazed and delighted him.

Now, it seemed like thin black threads were wrapped around his neck, intersecting and weaving into intricate patterns. Their loose ends dangled from his left shoulder, and on his neck, where Ethel had left a hickey, there was an ornate knot. Even though the skin under the tattoo hurt a lot now, Rika was glad he got this particular design. It felt like he was bound to Ethelstan by this thread. No, more than that, he felt tethered to the guy forever.

Decades could pass, and he would still carry this memory, something warm and bright that once was but disappeared so suddenly. Even if he never met Ethelstan again, Rika would have this talisman to support him and give him strength to move forward, despite all the hardships.

***

Ethelstan's efforts ensured that Videgrel couldn't get a decent sleep.

The man had just managed to doze off when the boy shook him awake and, with the most innocent expression, sent him to guard his guest.

Having fulfilled his stepson's request and handed over the care of the kid to Michel, Videgrel returned to his office but couldn't fall asleep again.

A series of phone calls, one after another, drove sleep away completely. Deciding to get some work done, hoping it would allow him to carve out a few hours of rest before the club opened, Videgrel turned to his tasks.

But working on the contract in peace and quiet was also not an option.

His wife called several times. Then his father called. And when his brother's number appeared on the phone, Videgrel suspected something was up. After a brief conversation with brother, he went online to check if there was a global "Call Your Neighbor" campaign happening that day.

There was no campaign, but the calls kept coming, as if everyone urgently needed to contact him to discuss some matters.

Even the owner of the tattoo parlor, with whom Videgrel had a service agreement for the club's staff, called.

"Mr. Roger, this is Bull," came the voice through the speaker when Videgrel reluctantly answered. "Your boy is satisfied."

"What a boy?" Videgrel asked, tearing himself away from the contract and rubbing his tired eyes.

"Clive. He said you sent him."

"I have no idea who you're talking about," the man snapped irritably. "Did you serve him for free?"

"No, he had money. But... you didn't send anyone?"

"No."

"Damn!" Bull swore.

"Did he cause you any problems?" Videgrel tensed.

"No, he behaved quite decently."

"Then I think nothing terrible happened."

"But what if he was underage? With today's youth, you never know."

"So what?" Videgrel didn't understand.

"What do you mean, "so what"? It's a matter of ethics," the man insisted.

"Bull, you did time for killing a minor. What ethics are we talking about?"

"It was an accident! I didn't see the red light, and... you know me, Mr. Roger. I wouldn't hurt a fly."

"Enough about that," Videgrel said tiredly. "Was the tattoo at least good?"

"Excellent!" Bull answered with pride.

"Then don't worry. From now on, I promise to call you before sending any of my boys."

"Thank you, Mr. Roger. All the best."

The call ended, and Videgrel set aside his cell phone. But he hadn't even managed to focus on the papers when he got another call.

"Yes?" the man said resignedly, answering another call from his wife.

"Where's Ethel?!" Miranda's irritated voice made him wince.

"He left for the airport two hours ago," Videgrel replied, feeling like a trained parrot. "I already told you."

"He's still not there! And his cell phone isn't answering! You're lying to me! You always cover for him! He's with you, isn't he?!"

"No... He left for the airport..."

"He didn't make it!"

"What does that have to do with me? He's an adult, and I can't control him."

"What were you doing all night?" Miranda launched into her favorite topic.

"Nothing. We were talking."

"In bed?"

"Please, don't start," Videgrel pleaded.

"He wants you!" the woman accused hysterically.

"I'm not gay; how many times do I have to say it? And I'm not interested in your son!"

"You're hiding the truth from me! I'll file for divorce and charge you with defilement! If you keep seeing him, I'll..."

"Enough!" the man interrupted his wife mid-sentence. "Do whatever you think is necessary!"

"Did you sleep with him? Are you admitting it? How could you?!" Miranda ranted.

"I didn't sleep with Ethelstan and have no intention of doing so. You're paranoid. And I'm not discussing this anymore."

"Videgrel, don't you dare hang up!" she demanded, but it was too late.

Videgrel ended the call and turned off his phone completely. He then put the documents aside and moved to the couch, feeling utterly exhausted and empty.

He needed to sleep, or he wouldn't be able to work in the evening.

But no matter how hard he tried to drift off, sleep eluded him.

Worry for Ethelstan gnawed at him, and the man found himself constantly glancing at the clock.

He had a hunch where the little brat had gone. And he knew perfectly well that "Paris" was off. But he didn't want to talk to Miranda about it. Let Ethel explain it to her himself. He's not a child anymore and should take responsibility for his actions.