White Russian - Whip #2

MISHA

Oct. 2011, Moscow

Misha hunched down behind the stadium bleachers, his body trembling as the cold autumn wind bit through his thin jacket. Fat droplets of rain pelted down from the darkening sky, soaking his hair and trickling down the back of his neck like icy fingers. He shivered violently and let out a colorful curse at his own stupidity.

Was he really so much of a masochist that he’d willingly freeze himself half to death just for a glimpse of Vladimir?

Apparently, yes.

It was an exercise in futility; one that went beyond mere foolishness. Watching him was pointless, considering Vladimir was as straight as an arrow. And worse, it was dangerous. If anyone at school caught wind of Misha’s secret, his life as he knew it would be over. Here, it didn’t matter that they were living in the twenty-first century. Most of his classmates were homophobic pricks, and even those who weren’t would never admit it in public.

And that wasn’t even the worst of his secrets.

The other truth, the one he kept locked away in the deepest recesses of his mind, the one hidden in a box in the back of his closet, was far more damning. It spoke of his need to be dominated, to be tied down, to be taken apart by a stronger man who could control him completely. Just the thought made his face heat despite the cold, shame curling in his stomach.

He squeezed his eyes shut and let out a quiet sigh. One day soon, he would leave this suffocating country and go somewhere he could finally be himself.

The thought made him smile, and when he opened his eyes again, it was just in time to see Vladimir and his teammates burst onto the field. His heart clenched as he took in the sight of him, all golden skin and lean muscles, his tight yellow shorts emphasizing every flex of his powerful legs. Misha sighed again, feeling like a pathetic, lovesick fool. This was nothing but a fantasy; a dream that would never be anything more.

After allowing himself a few more minutes of longing, he tore his gaze away and made his way back to the front of the school. Glancing down at the watch his friends had gifted him for his birthday, he noted the time: five o’clock. The sky was already darkening, the streetlights flickering on one by one. Late autumn brought early nights, and he knew he had to hurry. His father would be home soon, and Dima Vasiliev did not tolerate tardiness.

His father was a good man in the eyes of others, but to Misha, he was strict to the point of suffocation. He was a firm believer in patriarchy and all its rigid expectations of men and women. Coming out to him was simply not an option; not now, not ever.

The only person who knew was Sasha, his younger brother. Sasha was his rock, his best friend, the one person who had always had his back. When Misha had come out to him a year ago, he had been trembling, his breath caught in his throat as he braced for rejection. But Sasha had merely shrugged, pulled him into a tight hug, and carried on as if nothing had changed. That quiet, unwavering acceptance had meant more to Misha than he could ever put into words.

He was nearly home when his stomach dropped at the sight of his father’s truck parked in the driveway. Dima was home early. Misha cursed under his breath and quickened his pace, silently praying that his father was in a good mood. Otherwise, he could kiss his laptop goodbye for who knew how long.

As he reached for the door handle, a sudden force yanked him inside. A large hand clamped around the back of his neck, rough and unyielding, shoving him forward with brutal strength. He stumbled, confusion turning to dread as he looked up to see his father’s face twisted in fury.

“What the...?!” His words were cut off as he was thrown harshly to the floor, his head colliding with the edge of the coffee table. Pain exploded across his skull, his vision blurring at the edges. A sharp gasp echoed in the room, and through his haze, he saw his mother clutching Sasha’s arm, holding him back as he struggled to reach Misha. His brother’s wild, panicked eyes told Misha everything before he even looked down at the magazines scattered across the floor.

His face went deathly pale. BDSM magazines.

They knew.

Bile rose in his throat as the full weight of realization crashed down on him. His father knew.

“Dad, please, I can explain!” he rasped, scrambling for something, anything, to get himself out of this. But before he could say another word, a stinging slap cracked through the air, his father’s palm striking his cheek with enough force to send him reeling.

“An abomination!” Dima’s voice thundered; each word laced with disgust. “Is this how I raised you!? A faggot! And not just a faggot, but a sick, perverted one!”

Misha barely had time to react before his father’s fists were on him. Punches and kicks rained down, pain blooming across his body as he desperately tried to crawl away. He could hear Sasha screaming, his mother sobbing, but none of it stopped the onslaught.

“You will burn in hell for this, Misha,” Dima spat, yanking his son up by the hair and forcing him to meet his livid gaze. “You will leave this house and never return. Do you understand me?”

Barely able to breathe through the pain, Misha gave a weak nod. The next thing he knew, he was airborne, landing hard on the wooden porch. The door slammed shut behind him, the finality of it echoing through his bones.

Shivering, he forced himself to sit up, his nose bleeding, his body aching. The cold wind cut through his thin jumper, biting into his already trembling limbs. He felt like a ghost, weightless, discarded, like he no longer existed in the world he had called home.

Somehow, he pushed himself to his feet and stumbled forward. Across the street lay the little park where he and Sasha used to play as children. He drifted toward it, each step sluggish and uncertain, his arms wrapping around himself in a futile attempt to ward off the cold.

He collapsed onto a bench and curled in on himself, broken sobs tearing from his throat as the reality of what had just happened sank in.

For the first time in his life, Misha was truly alone.