Heart - 23. Leaving Home For Home

The chill didn't come over Tyson alone. He saw fear and hatred in Vladimir's eyes too, when he saw Edith Belmont-Lovett marching towards them. Fear and hatred Tyson had only seen when he knew Vladimir was seeing the three-headed evil creature that he believed killed his ex-boyfriend.

"I love you," Tyson whispered so quietly that Edith would not hear him.

"I love you too," Vladimir smiled back at him. "Good luck."

"Tyson!" She snapped again, her words like the crack of a whip as she intimidated her son and everyone around him. "Maybe your time is worthless, but I have things to do. Get your stuff. Quickly! I'll deal with this psychiatrist bitch."

Tyson, embarrassed and completely ashamed of his mother's behaviour, had his fists curled as he avoided the sympathetic and worried stares of nurses and fellow patients alike. He didn't bother to look around his room one last time. After all, he doubted it would be the last time he saw one like it. He didn't want to think about the memories he'd made. The happy and the sad. He just wanted to leave and do what he needed to do. He dragged his travel bag with one hand and held the small stack of books Cynthia gave him under his other arm and walked briskly back to the common room. Vladimir waved, looking as though he had started to cry. Tyson betrayed his promise not to think about what he was leaving behind and looked at him again, his jaw tightening. He gave the slightest of smiles then he turned away. He could not show any weakness. Nope.

"Tyson! Are you keen to go home?" Petra asked him, but she didn't sound excited at all. She knew what the score was. She was halfway useless, but she wasn't stupid.

"Yep," he lied through his teeth as she guided him through into the interview room.

Last time he was here was for a progress report between Cynthia and his mother. It went poorly. Edith was determined to take Tyson home, and when she didn't get it her way, she threatened to get the lawyers involved. But she didn't. Chase, according to Kelly, had forbidden her from getting involved at all, preferring to conjure up the story that Tyson was now living abroad so he didn't have to deal with him at all. For weeks, Tyson had no contact with his family at all. Nobody. He was all on his own, aside from the pity of the Tchaikovskys. The memory only strengthened his resolve and heightened his bitterness. If there was a way to have his parents killed without ruining his life in the process, he thought he would definitely do it. Brianna asked him how he'd rewrite his story if he could. He told her that he wanted everything, his home and his parents, to be nothing but ashes left on the ground.

"Where is this doctor? Does she ever run on time?" Edith was complaining as she tapped her acrylic nails on the tabletop.

"She does, actually. You're just early," Tyson remarked, taking a seat on the other side of the table. "Your haircut looks nice, Mum."

"It was bothering me, so I cut it off," Edith ran a hand through her new curly bob cut. "You need a trim."

"I wouldn't say no," Tyson reached up and combed his hair with his fingers, the same way Edith had just done. "I missed you."

Edith looked at him suspiciously. He didn't blame her. Typically one or both of them would be screeching at the other by now. Like mother, like son. But Tyson had been working hard with his psychiatrist and psychologist to unlearn that behaviour.

"Then you should have agreed to come home when you had the chance. You brought that on yourself," she glared.

"Sorry. I thought I was doing the right thing. I really did, Mum. I'm sick," he shrugged simply, leaning forward on the table. "I would have just tried to kill myself again and again."

"I hope you're done with that attention-seeking craze you've been on."

Attention seeking? Tyson felt the urge to lash out at her, but he controlled himself. He wasn't just her little clone anymore. "Yeah, I am. I take a lot of meds now that keep me balanced out."

"Do you?" She seemed unimpressed and folded her arms. "And?"

"I don't try to kill myself now. I also don't crack the shits anymore. Or... as much. You'd know if you came to see me at all."

"Don't you take that tone with me. I am your mother," she quickly rounded on him. "You rejected me, and you needed to learn that there are consequences for your behaviour."

Tyson wasn't sure why he was trying to find any shred of a bond with her. Even now, even after all she'd put him through, a part of him was hoping that they might reconcile in some way. Vladimir had every right to be the most miserable person in the world. He was battling a combination of schizophrenia and post-traumatic stress, as well as mistreatment by a quack doctor, and he was still happy and optimistic. He had a family that loved him. It didn't matter what trials he was going through, because Masha would always be there to support him. Tyson wanted that more than anything. Even from Edith.

Idiot, he cursed himself. Can't learn your lesson.

When Cynthia did finally arrive with apologies for her tardiness - apologies that Edith accepted graciously, which left Tyson bewildered. Edith was being... pleasant wasn't the word, but compliant. She listened to Cynthia's summary of what had been going on in the last few weeks and the extraordinary progress she and Tyson had made together. She also insisted that Tyson remain on a heavy regime of benzodiazepines and antidepressants while he recovered outside of the hospital. But when Cynthia mentioned the follow-up appointment that Tyson was legally obligated to attend, cracks began to appear in the mask.

"The first appointment with Dr Brianna Hodges is not voluntary," Cynthia discussed cautiously, wary of triggering Edith's wrath in some way. "This is the protocol for the discharge of anyone, adult or minor, who has been legally detained in a mental health facility."

"Why? He's being discharged. Why does he need to come back?" Edith asked her, irritation showing through her facade.

"That's how it is, Mrs Belmont-Lovett. Involuntary patients must be discharged to a carer with a treatment plan," she explained. "Weekly sessions with Dr Hodges is paramount to Tyson's recovery. If you cannot make the appointment on Wednesday, then you're welcome to reschedule, but he must attend an appointment with his psychologist in no longer than a week from now. So next Friday."

"I want to request a second opinion."

Like that would change anything, Tyson thought.

"You have every right to a second opinion of any decision made about Tyson's recovery, but this isn't my decision, Mrs Belmont-Lovett. This is the law," said Cynthia firmly. "No psychiatrist has the authority to change the nature of the law in this respect."

"I want to cancel that appointment!"

"That's not an option. You're welcome to reschedule, but if Tyson doesn't attend his appointment, the authorities will intervene and escort him to a hospital. If that comes to pass, it is very likely that you will be charged."

Tyson couldn't hide the smug expression on his face. They couldn't get rid of him so easily. Finally, after losing the rigged game with his parents for so long, he had some aces in his hand. He didn't feel so helpless now. He wasn't alone anymore. He wasn't so scared anymore. Rather than seeing Edith as an unstoppable force who always got what she wanted, he was now beginning to see her for what she was. A cowardly, self-hating, miserable bully. For the first time, he was surprised at how... small she appeared. But then, she had only ever been a pawn of Chase Lovett's, hadn't she? Who the fuck was Edith, anyway? And why had he been so frightened of her?

Never again, he silently promised himself. Never. Again.

Despite the air conditioning inside, Tyson felt himself beginning to sweat when he advanced, lead by his mother towards the airlock style doors that had been a barrier between him and the terrors of the outside world for so long. Anxiety built in his chest as Petra unlocked the first one and opened it for them, Edith stepping past as though the young social worker were a servant. Petra locked the first door again and then she opened up the second door - the front entrance of the psychiatric ward. The adolescent AIU was a separate building from the main hospital, with a short pathway connecting it to the pediatric wing. The warm air struck Tyson like one of his mother's slaps in the face. It didn't feel like freedom at all. It felt like danger. Terror. Ironically, though he'd been brought in on a gurney in the dead of night, screaming in rage and defiance but unable to make a run for it because of his busted ankle, he didn't want to leave. He wasn't ready. Had he not set everything up for this weekend, he would beg to go back inside and do what Vladimir was doing - making a gradual exit back into the real world. This was scary enough to make him feel faint.

"Good luck, Tyson! Call me if you need anything at all. Even if it's just a chat," Petra, who didn't like Tyson much after he got her in a lot of trouble by stealing a pencil sharpener, did at least seem as though she were sorry to see him go.

Tyson paused, his nerve disappearing, but Edith tugged him by the wrist with an aggravated huff. Just like that, the anger bubbled back, and the nerve returned. He wrenched away from her but kept up with her pace as he wheeled his luggage along the footpath to the car park. How funny, he thought, that every time he considered chickening out, she proved why she deserved what he had planned for her. The air tasted different out here. It was a warm day as Autumn began to turn the leaves of the trees nearby. It was nice. All the plants and shrubs in the hospital's courtyard were evergreen, so this was the first evidence of the changing season Tyson had seen for himself. He'd give it all up to swing on the sofa in the inpatient courtyard again, with Vladimir's arm around him as he listened to the boy's heart beating in his chest and the Russian songs he tended to hum - a duet with the woman inside his head.

That's it, he realised sadly. Crazy is normal to me now. What's "normal" for most people scares the fuck out of me.

It seemed impossible to think that six weeks of hospital life could have had such an effect on him. How could anyone expect Charlie to adapt to life outside the hospital? He was set up to fail over and over again.

Nobody was there to greet him at the car. No Chase, to Tyson's relief, and no Kelly, to his dismay. The drive home was quiet, and the teenager had no intentions of sparking up a conversation with that woman. As they passed by the gated manors close by their own enormous house, Tyson realised why it was so serene. Edith had nothing to say to him. He expected her to complain about how far behind he was in his studies and lessons, how much work he had to do to catch up and what a worthless piece of shit he was. It confirmed Kelly's story that he was indeed being sent to live with Edith's family in Sri Lanka - something he admittedly would have welcomed until he found Vladimir, Masha, Charlie, the nurses and his treatment team. How could he disappear to another country while Chase and his team were going to take a sledgehammer to public mental health? Charlie Maizels might end up on the streets. Vladimir might lose his treatment plans. Sue, Neil, Alice and Evan might end up sacked.

Stepping through the front door into the entrance hall was a troubling experience. All the anger, desperation and hatred he left behind now seemed to swirl in the air and whisper into his ear. Taunting him. Giving him ideas. Putting those horrible thoughts back into his head.

You're worthless.

It's all your fault.

You're a psycho.

Nobody likes you.

You're crazy.

Nobody believes anything you say anyway.

You should just kill yourself.

I'm not ready to be here, he realised once again. I need to go back to the hospital. I'm still sick. I'm not prepared. I can't do this. What if I do hurt myself again? Vlady will never forgive me. What if it makes him meltdown again? Like he did when Alexey died?

Monday. Make it to Monday. Masha will leak the video and call child protective services. They'll take you away.

Or I can kill myself now and never worry about it.

But I can't. I want Vladimir. I don't want to die.

But it would be so easy. You already permanently weakened your heart with liquid nicotine. What's the point of it all, anyway?

Nope. Nope. Nope. I can work this shit out after whatever happens on Monday. If I can make it past Monday, then I know the last six weeks aren't for nothing.

"That bitch Ellicott. Hmph, do I have plans for her," Edith murmured mostly to herself as she began to scale the round marble stairs to the first floor, expecting Tyson to follow.

"For saving my life?"

Edith snapped around to glare at him. "What she did or didn't do doesn't matter. She used you to get to me. Now that you're not her hostage any more, she's fair game."

"Ugh, whatever, you crazy bitch. Just keep her name out of your mouth," Tyson folded his arms, but he realised too late that he'd gone and done it now.

"How dare you speak to me like that! I'm not the deranged little shit who carved up my own arm for attention!" She screeched at him, making him flinch. "I'm not the nutcase who got thrown in the loony bin! Don't you dare call me crazy! I tried to get you out, but if you're happy being in a lunatic asylum, it's because you belong here with the insane and the psychos! Look at you! Scars and pills and getting locked up in the padded room! Why can't you just be normal?"

Tyson braced himself for the inevitable smack on the face he would get when he upset her this badly, but it never came. Cautiously, he peeked at her, and her dark brown knuckles were white, clenched around the golden bannister. Time stood still between them as Tyson plucked the courage to reply.

"At least you won't ever have to see me again soon. I'll be out of your life forever. Just like you always wanted, right?"

"You have yourself to blame for that," Edith, if Tyson wasn't mistaken, seemed troubled by admitting that. So it was true. Kelly hadn't been lying to him. "If you had just pulled yourself together..."

"Do you want me to go, Mum? Do you hate me that much?"

"It's your fault this is happening! Not mine!" She didn't seem to want to answer the question. "Now come on. You're spending the next week upstairs while you think about everything you threw away."

It was still his bedroom, he immediately thought, but then he saw the changes that had been made. The piano he'd been missing wasn't in the corner where he'd left it. Neither was his flute, to his dismay. He'd been looking forward to playing music again. His bed and bookshelf remained, fortunately, but his laptop and all of his cords had been taken. That much, he expected. But what alarmed him was that his windows had been boarded up with wood! When he turned back, he saw the key in the outside lock of his bedroom door and froze.

"Are you actually going to lock me in here?" He asked her, not entirely surprised, but disgusted.

"If I have to," Edith folded her arms across her chest. "You're not to go downstairs at all unless your father says you can. Do you understand, Tyson?"

"Right. Nobody can know what a fucking liar he is, can they? It'd be super awkward if someone saw me. Hah," He slumped down on his bed, letting his luggage bag fall to the floor. "Why do you put up with his shit, Mum?"

"You watch what you say. He is your father!" She shouted, and a flicker of fear crossed her face. "He's furious with you. Don't antagonise him."

"He's pissed with you too. But you don't do anything about it because you're a chickenshit and that's why you take everything out on me!" Tyson accused her, remembering all the sessions he'd done with Brianna and Cynthia and all the work he'd done on exploring the source of his anger issues. "I always thought you were a bitch, but I never knew you were gutless until now." Edith's jaw seemed to drop, and outrage filled her face. "Yeah. I did a lot of therapy, Mum. I'm a lot like you, it turns out. So for every single thing you hate about me, look in the fucking mirror. That's where I learned it from. Looks like if I'm really crazy, like you say I am, then I must have had a great teacher!"

Tyson looked up, defiance written all over his face, and Edith's fingers curled into fists. Would she hit him this time? He'd certainly given her enough ammunition. She brought up her hand, outrage twisting her usually pretty face. Tyson didn't want to flinch, but his learned responses were stronger than his determination not to give her satisfaction, and he cringed. But she didn't hit him. SMACK! She smacked her hand against the desk with a hell of a bang and grimaced. It definitely hurt her, and memories flashed in front of Tyson's eyes of the way he repeatedly punched the door of his bathroom when he shoved Vladimir over some time ago. Until his knuckles bled.

"Just empty your luggage," she demanded, pointing to his travel bag. "Do it! And your pockets!"

Tyson would normally tell her to go fuck herself, but he was so proud of engineering the smuggling operation with Kelly that he was pleased to do so just to prove that he wasn't up to something. They went through everything - though some of his clothes hadn't been washed yet and Edith didn't want to touch them.

"Strip," she ordered him then, and he turned pink.

"You're not serious? Fuck off."

"Either you do it now, or you do it when your father comes home," she told him firmly, but if he were not mistaken, it sounded more like a warning than it did a threat.

With an uncomfortable grimace, he did what he was told - though she did not force him to remove his underwear, which was a relief. It was confusing, though. Did she hate him or not? She likely wouldn't spare him a complete strip search if she thought he was hiding something from her. Chase certainly wouldn't. What changed? Regardless, Edith shook out his clothes and checked all of his pockets, finding only a tissue that he'd blown his nose with earlier that day, to her disgust.

"I want my flute," Tyson told her once he'd put his clothes back on.

"Ask your father," was her only reply.

"I'm asking you. You're one of my parents, aren't you? In fact, I'm pretty sure you put in more effort into giving birth to me than he did. Why does he get to make these decisions?"

She ran her hands through her hair. "Just behave yourself. For one week, can you just behave yourself?"

"Why should I? I'm going to Sri Lanka no matter what I do, right?" Tyson approached her, and she, to his astonishment, took a small step backwards. "Right? Because you hate me enough to never want to see me again, right? Why do you hate me? Is it because Chase does?"

It's not like she'd ever had an original thought.

"I don't hate you. But I don't like you," Edith's honesty was a surprise. "You're vindictive, you're stubborn, and you're immature. I did my best, but I can't fix you no matter what I try to do. You just won't listen."

"You never tried loving me."

It hung in the air. Edith's face curled up further in contempt, as though he were accusing her of doing something wrong. In a way, he was, but it wasn't just a declaration of wrongdoing. Tyson, no matter how many times he vowed to himself that he had washed his hands of her, never stopped wishing on a star that Edith would turn around at the last minute and love him like mothers were supposed to. He never had that hope for Chase. But he did for Edith. She was a deeply flawed person, but he always hoped that there was some good in there somewhere. After all, Tyson was a violent, aggressive, disrespectful little bastard by his own admission, but that wasn't all there was to him. He responded well when he was given love, respect and companionship. If he and Edith were indeed the same by nature, could she be rescued? Like he was? Or was she too far gone? Stuck in the cycle of abuse?

"I'll get your flute," she decided. "You stay here until Chase gets back from his debate."

"And my music sheets? Please?"

It felt amazing to have his flute back in his hands. It was possibly the thing from home that he missed most during his admission to the Acute Inpatient Unit. Hearing the familiar notes of Franz Danzi's compositions brought a lot of calm and peace to Tyson's ears and heart. If he needed to be sectioned again, he hoped they would let him bring his flute, but the nurses would not let him have it unless he was lower than a high self-harm risk. Ironic, he thought. Being able to play music on the flute and not the out of tune kid's piano with the one stuck key would have done a lot more for his recovery than the incessant checks, lack of privileges and complete loss of privacy. One day, when Tyson did funnel his way into politics, he would change a lot of things about the public mental health service. Then kids like Charlie and Vladimir would never have to suffer from neglect or maltreatment again.

Kelly's cautious voice interrupted him from the other side of his closed bedroom door. "Tys, welcome home. How are you doing?" She must have been wary - in times past, he would have leapt down her throat if she disrupted his music playing.

"Kelly! Hello."

Tyson put the shiny brass instrument down on his desk and opened his door. His sister was there, a prettier, younger Edith, with a much more relaxed face and even a smile. He awkwardly put his arms around her, and she briefly and gently squeezed him back. He got the sense she wasn't ready to begin hugging each other yet, but he was still glad to see her.

"I'm sorry I didn't come back to visit. I was so busy, you know, with the election coming up," Kelly explained nervously, leaning against the doorway.

"No, that's fine. I remember how hectic it gets here," he offered a short, half-hearted chuckle, and opened the door up wider. "Do you want to come in?"

"Um... no. Sorry. But it's good to have you back. Did that psychiatrist give you any trouble?"

"Cynthia? Yeah, she's a cow. She puts her patients in straitjackets and then spits in their mouths," Tyson teased his sister, who didn't find it so funny. "She's great. I don't think she's any trouble. Mum's the one who makes everything difficult."

"She was only trying to get you to come home," Kelly always stood up for their mother. "That bitch wouldn't let you leave."

"Because I begged her not to. You know that, right? I was screwed up, Kel. I probably would have just slashed up again. I don't know," Tyson admitted to her, still painfully unused to the feeling of being vulnerable around his family. "Do you have... anything for me? By the way?"

"I flushed it," Kelly told him sheepishly, and Tyson's gut fell out of his stomach.

"You what??"

"I'm kidding. Wow. We don't get each other at all," she laughed at him and the panic stuck on his face. "It's just your medication, right? To help you relax?"

"You silly bitch. I always thought you had no sense of humour. I think I liked it better that way. God damn," Tyson, aware that he needed to remain in her good graces, played off the joke rather than getting upset with her. "Yeah. Can I please have those? Mum's already done her security check."

"Do I have to, though? I don't want to get in trouble if you're caught. Mum's gonna give you your meds anyway. With dinner," Kelly explained, and Tyson eyed her off.

"I don't believe that. Hah," he snorted.

"She's not dumb, Tys. She knows you'll probably be more balanced out if you take your crazy pil-- sorry. Medication."

It was interesting to him that she was actively trying to correct the way she spoke in front of him to avoid upsetting him. She was no more tolerant of the mentally ill than their parents before Tyson went into the ward. He remembered how he used the term "schizo" in front of Vladimir and upset him, then realised how much words can hurt. He liked Kelly at that moment. Genuinely. But efforts from his sister or not, he still needed those pills.

"I'd rather have them and not need them than to need them and not have them. Please? I'll keep them safe. If anyone finds them, I'll just say I stashed them there before I went to the hospital," Tyson proposed, and she sighed before conceding and disappearing down the hallway.

She returned and fished them from her bra, the same place she'd stashed them when she was leaving the hospital during her visit. Tyson was so pleased to see his handkerchief again, and he was quick to hide them behind the hanging picture of the Eiffel Tower on his wall, intending to relocate them the moment his sister left.

"Why don't you go and get your violin and we can jam? Or something?" Tyson suggested once that transaction was complete.

"I have a lot of homework to do. But that sounds like fun. We should do that before..." she trailed off, sadly. "Let's do that later on tonight."

The door creaked open, and Tyson's pulse increased dramatically. Tall, lean old Chase Lovett stood there, a dark, menacing look on his face as he glared at his son. He was pasty, almost grey, his hair cut short and unconvincingly dyed brown, and round glasses perched on a long, hooked nose. The very wrinkles of the man's face quivered with malice and hatred. Tyson never saw much of his father. The man who spawned him nothing but a way to forward his career. To quash accusations of racism and intolerance of immigrants. He lived alone on the second floor of the house where everyone else lived on the first. Very rarely did he have reason to associate with his wife or children, leaving Edith to raise his mixed-race children as perfect little examples of traditional Lovett values.

"You. Out."

He pointed at Kelly, who quickly bowed her head and obeyed him, rushing out of the room. Chase shut the door and advanced, his arms folded and thunder in his eyes. Quick a snake, he lashed out and caught Tyson by his shirt, right next to his throat, and yanked him close, putting his face up close.

"I've had a gutful of you, you little bastard," Chase was so angry that flecks of spit landed on his son's face. "Next time you do something to embarrass me, you won't need to kill yourself. I'll make it look like a bloody suicide. You hear me, you coconut?"

Tyson hated that word. Brown on the outside, white on the inside. Some people called him a coconut as though it was something to be proud of. As though he should be pleased that Chase Lovett took away all that "horrible" Sinhalese culture. The fear melted away, leaving only insurgency in its wake.

"So?" He grabbed his father's wrist and attempted to pry it off, but Chase was bigger and stronger, and he only scowled harder. "It's not like you can do anything!"

"I can do plenty, Tyson! Try me!" Chase snarled at him, almost quivering with anger. "You're too fucking stupid to see how good you have it! The house, your school, your tutors! Everything you have is better than a filthy half breed like you deserves! Like this bloody flute!"

He released Tyson and reached for the brass flute on the desk. Tyson yelped in alarm as Chase brought it down over his knee, twisting it with a grimace.

"Cunt!" Tyson yelled, his fists clenched and his eyes burning.

Chase tossed the bent instrument against one of the walls, then turned back to his son, who was red with indignant rage. He loved that flute. It was one of his most prized possessions! Tyson, angry enough to accelerate his plan to bait his father, grabbed the first things nearby and tossed them at the monster in front of him. The books and the shorts he threw glanced off Chase, who eventually grabbed the boy's wrists to stop him.

"Yes, yes, have your tantrum," he taunted, patronising the youngster.

Tyson, unsatisfied by the way their fight was going, spat in his father's face. It wasn't a good shot, but it hit the mark, and Chase shoved him back onto his bed. This is it, Tyson thought, bracing himself. He's gonna do it. Good.

But he didn't.

"No. There's no easy way out for you," Chase's voice was shaking with disgust and fury as he wiped his face with the sleeve of his shirt. "You think I'm a fool, like your slut of a mother? No. I'm not laying a finger on you. And neither is she. That's what you're counting on, isn't it? Ede and I smear you against the wall, and that woman wonders on Wednesday why you have no teeth? Hmph. No. It wasn't a bad plan, Tyson. I'll say that for you. But if you were any good at executing plans, you'd be dead right now, and the whole country would think I failed as a father."

Tyson's blood ran cold. This wasn't how it was supposed to go! And the worst thing was that he was right! How did this go to ruin so quickly? Luckily he didn't stake everything on this plan - though it certainly would have made everything easier.

"You've proven a few times that you're a flight risk, so I think it's best if I lock you in here until Wednesday," Chase added, walking on over to the doorway.

Tyson leapt up but Chase was too fast, slamming the wooden door shut with a bang and Tyson heard the key turning in the lock.

"Arrgh!!" Tyson shouted in frustration, his one chance to manipulate his father into beating him up gone! "I'll just do it to myself, then! I cut myself almost to the bone and drank liquid nicotine and your gross vodka - which was worse than the poison, by the way! You think I can't rough myself up and make a few bruises? Brianna will love seeing that!"

Chase huffed. "You really are an idiot. You just spent over a month in an asylum because you wouldn't stop hurting yourself. Who's going to believe a crazy little rat like you?" Tyson exhaled angrily and rested his head on the wall. "And don't expect your crazy pills, either! I hear withdrawals from that stuff is nasty, by the way. Serves you right."

Tyson heard him stomping away, and then he tried to open his door. Locked tight. He rolled his eyes and turned around, taking some deep breaths. He had no reason to panic, he told himself. At least he was in his bedroom. And though Chase thought he'd be putting his delinquent son through hell with medication withdrawal, Kelly's smuggling efforts ensured Tyson had valium to ride out the storm - though, that wasn't what the stash was supposed to be for. He had stacks of books in here, and at least a dozen he was yet to read. He had an ensuite bathroom with a shower, a toilet and a sink. It was better than being locked in the quiet room in the AIU, at least. Besides, it wouldn't be permanent. Masha Tchaikovsky would come to his rescue on Monday. He knew she would. She promised, and he didn't believe she would lie to him.

He looked over at his flute, and his face wilted. He loved that thing. It was one of the most important things he owned. He played it at home, he played it at lessons, he played it at recitals! There was a lot of history in that shiny hunk of twisted metal. At least he could survive until Monday. Easily. He spent much of his time in the hospital bored to tears. Now that he was in his comfortable bed with his books, the next few days wouldn't be so difficult.

His thoughts drifted to Vladimir, as they so often did. With the pretty face and the kissable lips and that incredible butt. Oh, that butt, with those jeans! How fortunate that Vladimir would inherit his mother's butt. Heh. Tyson's hormones took over, and blood rushed to a particular spot on his body. He tried to ignore it, as he was used to doing. Nothing ruined a mood like Alice's voice talking at him through the door during one of those incessant checks. But Alice wasn't here. Tyson was likely going to be left alone. A lot. His thoughts drifted to Vladimir without his shirt on. He had six weeks of suppressed sexual energy to catch up on, and thanks to his beautiful boyfriend, he had a lot of fantasy fuel. What else would he do until Monday? At least he wouldn't be bored.

The only thought sweeter than naked Vladimir was the knowledge that even though Chase Lovett had won the battle, he was going to lose the war.

Thank you for reading, everyone. ❤️ It means a lot! I hope you like the chapter.