My Soul to Take - 2. Chapter 2

Neal brushed aside some of the grime that had gathered at the engraving and pulled away the weeds around the gravestone. Brad appreciated the effort Neal had been putting in ever since they moved into the city. At the grave of his old boss, not for the first time, he wondered if anyone from his old gang left behind a family and if they managed to pass on to whatever afterlife there was. That was one thing about Brad; he never believed in an afterlife. His neighbors would call him a heathen for being anywhere but a church on Sundays. Of course, his friends never thought any less of him because of it, but most of the guys were God-fearing men.

Being in front of Old Man Geo's grave made him nostalgic. He remembered being around the warehouse for a few drinks and laughs, just shooting the shit and enjoying what little life had to offer then. Neal's company was different, to say the least. The guy was only noisy in a good game, or when he was debating something he felt strongly about. But the kid always paid attention to him when he could, and it was enough. Brad couldn't really complain, except maybe be able to touch things or go wherever he wanted. Sometimes he'd go to sleep and realize days had gone by. That often jarred him, made him wonder how much he missed while he was asleep.

Neal set up candles by the grave and lit them with a couple of matches. His eyes ghosted over the name: Giuseppe Condotierri. He wondered how Brad remembered the name so well; it was a difficult-enough name to forget if someone was unfamiliar with Italian. Around the graveyard, a handful of other names were familiar to the spirit. All old buddies or old neighbors they had. "Do you want me to try finding their families?"

"What good would it do?" Brad asked him, sitting down on a gravestone. "Everyone's either dead or dying of old age. I wouldn't think there's a point in trying to find them, especially if I can't even talk to them."

"Closure, then?"

"I don't need closure. How's that gonna help me?"

Neal shrugged, a little helpless in their back-and-forth. "Maybe passing on? If you want that, that is."

Brad fixed him with a gaze that wasn't unkind, but was neither friendly. "Do you want that?"

"I want what will make you happy, Brad. If you're too tired here, well, we should find some way to give you rest. At least, before I die." Neal picked at his sleeve as he considered their options. "You know how I get sometimes, right?"

Brad vividly remembered something he'd rather forget. His translucent form cringed at the thought, the memory, of waking up to find Neal standing on a chair, under a ceiling fan with a noose lax over his shoulders. He'd never seen so much despair in those eyes. Some days he saw it again. It was the one time Brad was asleep for over a week. Apparently, a lot could happen in a week. "It won't come to that."

"I'd feel bad if you lost your sanity without having a physical brain." That got a snort out of Brad. "You get what I mean. Being alone? It's... not great."

Brad loped off the gravestone and walked up to him, hand clapping on the shoulder as a soft gust of wind. "But you managed, haven't you?"

"You were there."

"Not all the time."

"Still there," Neal insisted, and that smile made Brad a little dizzy. "I'm better now, we both know that. But it'd rattle me if you left. Even so, I wouldn't mind, if it made you happy."

"Well aren't you a saint?" Brad laughed,a dn he nudged Neal on the head. "I won't leave you now. What would that make me?"

Neal huffed out a laugh, and he moved to grab brad, only to have those hands phase through him. They both were taken aback for a moment, but Neal quickly laughed it off, beaming at him.. "Thanks, Brad."

"I should be the one thanking you."

The moment hung for a gentle moment. Right before a strange rumbling squelch broke it. Neal looked down at himself and felt his stomach. "Well, ain't that a mood killer."

"We should buy you a cake."

Neal nodded. "I think I could eat a whole cake by myself these days."

*

Neal's date with Sergei was scheduled on a weekend, which wasn't too much trouble. The day before, Sergei ate at the diner and had small talk with Neal, who waited his table at the insistence of his friends. They arranged the time and venue before he paid the bill, sneaking in a small little note for him and a generous tip. Brad whistled as he inspected the ten-dollar bill. "Got yourself a sugar daddy?"

"Shut up," Neal muttered. He was reluctant to accept the gift; he'd have to spend it on Sergei tomorrow just to make it even. Then something occurred to him. "Fuck, I have nothing good to wear."

"Oh my god, you have nothing for a date?" someone behind him drawled, and Neal nearly jumped as he turned around, finding his flamboyant co-worker Damian flapping a wrist at him, a judgmental eyebrow raised high behind his bangs. "Oh honey, we can't have that. You bagged yourself a Russian dreamboat. You need to make him hungry for your cute little ass."

"He has a point," Lamar added, stepping in from the kitchen. His dreads were tied back in a ponytail and tied into a bun to fit it in the hairnet. "You need to impress this guy. I'm sure Jasmine could help tomorrow before the date."

"I'm not enlisting the help of your sister."

Roughly ten hours later, he still didn't enlist her aide, she shoved herself into his small shared apartment against the protests of his flatmates and rummaged through his wardrobe. "I know you live with slobs, Neal, but you should treat yourself. These duds are horrible."

"We only intersect being here on weekends," Neal argued. "And I don't see how that affects my choice of fashion."

"Or lack thereof," Xian chimed in, earning pointed glares from the other two in their ebdroom. "What? The guy wears t-shirt and jeans almost every day. The only thing else different is the occassional jacket."

Jasmine considered him for a moment before turning to Neal. "You couldn't fuck the hunky Asian in your bedroom?"

"Look, he makes me hangry. That's not conducive to a healthy relationship." Neal turned to Xian, unrepentant. "No offense, Xian."

"He's verbally abusive," Xian added. "Like, if we fuck, we'd end up with all the dirty talk."

"I'd probably beg for you to 'pound my pussy, daddy'."

"Oh my god!" Jasmine groaned. "Just have hate sex already. I can practically smell the semen."

"Check under Xian's bed. I bet it's from there." Neal, to his credit, wasn't fazed when Xian tossed a pair of underwear to his face. "Oh my god, fresh undies. A Christmas miracle."

Brad was resigned to their antics. He liked Xian enough. He just thought the two were like cats and dogs. The worst part was that he knew the two were taking out their sexual frustrations through banter, which was weird in itself, but he was sure Xian was straight. Lord knows they both walked in on him with a girlfriend a few times. Never a boy, so it was safe to assume his heterosexuality. But... "Seriously, Neal. Just give him a blowjob. It might make you two friendlier."

"I'll suck his dick when he sucks mine," Neal muttered as he joined Jasmine at his wardrobe. "What the hell are you looking for?"

"Something not hipster," she pointed out.

"What's so hipster about my clothes?"

"Plaid shirts, silkscreen tees, and jeans." She jabbed a finger at his face, between the eyes. "Glasses, hair. Definitely hipster."

"My hair is plain, at best."

"Cutey hipster."

"I hate you."

*

Neal met up with Sergei at the mall, dressed in a jacket, a knit cap from Xian, and jeans that felt like they were suffocating his legs. He hated those the most. He looked like a marshmallow on a toothpick. Topped with a weird cherry.

Sergei's eyes lit up when he saw him, and his greeting was, "You look very uncomfortable."

"My friends thought I couldn't dress myself 'comfortably'," Neal drawled, earning a small snicker from Brad. "Shut up."

"I didn't even say anything."

"You were thinking it," he recovered quickly. He shoved his hands into the pockets of his jacket. "So where are we headed?"

"Very nice restaurant. It's Russian."

Neal blinked once, then twice, the movement deliberate and slow. "There's a Russian restaurant? In the city?"

Beaming, Sergei nodded. "Da."

"Why am I only learning this now?"

"Because you are sheltered?"

Neal stabbed a finger at his chest. "I never figured you to be the sassy type. Don't... Don't sass me."

Sergei's mischievous grin was foreboding. "I would not dream of it. If you want, we could buy you clothes?"

"I don't need you to be my sugar daddy."

"I can give you much sugar. You'll love it!"

Neal groaned and pinched the bridge of his nose, praying for guidance, patience, and possibly hot chocolate. "I just finished having innuendos with my friends. I don't need that from you right now."

The restaurant was a small place, but homey and inviting. The warm tones helped set the mood and the staff was amicable. Decor offered scenery and portraits that made it feel more like a house opened to the public than the usual sort of professionalism that was prevalent in the restaurants in town. The staff seemed to dote on them both, their accents thick but clear enough in their English. Sergei was obviously a regular since they spoke to him in their native tongue, the back and forth smooth and snappy. They were shown to a table, and Sergei helped Neal out of his prison, attracting some attention as Neal swore up and down and pulled himself free and promptly shoved it all on a spare chair at their table. "You seem at home here."

Sergei shrugged and offered Neal a menu. "I've helped the family set up this restaurant. I get returns here every month, aside from a small discount."

Neal went over the mixed-language menu, grateful for the guide to pronouncing the names. Russian alphabet had little to no Latin ancestry, so the letters were too different. "Wow, I have no idea what to order."

"They explain it well enough."

"Okay, then I'll have pelmeni and priozhki with a glass of sbiten."

"I'll buy us a chicken pirog and maybe a chicken kiev so you're not totally out of your depth."

"That would be lovely." Sergei called for a waitress and placed their orders. Neal listened tot the smooth, easy flow of Russian dialect, how this man seemed at relaxed around here. "Would you like to learn some Russian, kotonyok?"

"Kotonyok?"

"It's a small endearment."

"What does it mean?"

The grin on the man's face was boyish and unabashed. "Kitten." That earned him a small kick to the shin. "It's a perfect fit."

"It is," Brad agreed.

Neal's eyes flickered momentarily to Brad before fixing on Sergei. "Shut up."

Neal had to admit, dinner was spectacular, but almost any full course meal was something he'd praise to Heaven and back. When he was offered the dessert menu, he froze midway, hands hesitantly dangling in mid-air. Sergei rolled his eyes and took Neal's hand in his and shoved the menu there. "It's fine, really. I'm paying, remember?"

"You're sure?"

"Positive."

"HIV Positive?"

Sergei snorted, grimacing at the terrible joke. "That is not for polite company."

"I think I've learned from earlier you're not one of them." The shit-eating grin he got from that almost jarred him. "At this rate, we'll be making terrible puns all the way home."

Sergei nodded as he finished his drink. "Yours or mine?"

"I don't put out on the first date."

The man swirled his drink in its glass, looking at Neal over the rim with such swagger and muster that it actually looked good, when on anyone else it would have been ridiculous. "I was hoping we could relax with some Netflix."

It took a moment for Neal to register that. "Netflix and Chill? Really? You're resorting to that?"

Sergei snorted, but shrugged helplessly. "It was worth a shot."

*

Later that night, they truly did wound up at Sergei's home, a small but cozy apartment with shelves full of books and an open area for the dining room, kitchen, and living space. It was a tame evening full of cookies, biscuits, milk, and Monty Python. Sergei was shutting the television off when he looked over his shoulder and smiled at Neal's sleeping form, out like a light and slow, even breaths breaking the only thing breaking the silence. "You do not need to worry, Bradley. He is in good hands."

Bradley froze, right hand an inch away from a fringe of Neal's hair hanging over his eyes. He watched Sergei cautiously as the man turned off the television and pulled the plug. "You see me." It wasn't a question; the way they looked at each other was evidence enough. "How?"

"We are not so different," Sergei remarked. And there was a shift in the air. What scared Brad wasn't the sudden change of aura, though; he'd faced down people scarier than him and this was no different. What scared him was that he felt it, felt that cold wind around him, for the first time in years. The sensation was almost like frostbite to him. "Though I am perhaps more."

"What are you getting at?" Brad bit out, every instinct inside him warring between fight, flight, and protect. He stood between Sergei and Neal, not sure what to do. He felt the cold biting into his form, and he damn well knew where it came from, but he was not backing down. "Who the fuck are you?!"

And just like that, Sergei's skin glowed, fissures of light casting an eerie white glow all over the room. His eyes glowed and his mouth let out a fog with every breath. And then there was a smile, a smile that was anything but warm. "They call me Morozko. You may call me 'Father Frost'. And I believe it is about time we talked, molodchik."

Brad felt as if he was facing death in the face, and in the face of death, all he could muster was, "What is it with Neal and daddies?"