The overwhelming feeling of guilt never stopped eating away at Nessa. It chased him all the way to Chicago, and it continued to nip at his heels with each step. After speaking to Ian like that, he realized that not only did it never go away, but he hadn't changed either. It seemed that moving so far away didn't change anything. He was still evil. Sick. Twisted.
Bad things happen to bad people. That was why those events lead him so far from home. Because he wasn't a good person, because he deserved the karma. His actions were one day going to bite him in the ass, and they sure as hell had. Not just because of what happened, but because of that ceaseless plague that humans called guilt.
Once an addict, always an addict. And he was certainly addicted to one thing, even though it wasn't quite as conventional as drugs. Nessa liked to believe that that saying wasn't true. People can change, addicts can escape the chains that keep them rooted. But then he would be there all over again, only this time the setting was a library and the boy was named Ian, and he would realize how foolish he could be.
Then he would remember his friends' voices as they teased him. Though, he wasn't sure how accurate their voices were anymore even though it had only been a matter of months. He was sure that he wasn't remembering them quite right. They would always laugh and pat the top of his head. Charmer is at it again, they would say, you simply can't stop yourself, can you?
No. He couldn't. And now here he was, so far away from what he once knew, all because he couldn't stop himself. Nessa was deathly afraid that it would happen again as a result. With each passing day, he was growing wary of this false sense of security.
Charm? Their voices echoed. What the fuck did you do?
The thumping of his shoe against the floor was like an odd lullaby to his ears. His eyelids consistently began to flutter shut every few seconds, before flying back open once he realized how close to sleep he had become. Then he would tune into that tapping of his shoe, and his thoughts would collect once more.
This continued on for quite a while, almost the entire hour. Eventually, he heard the classroom begin to stir, making him realize that it was time to get going. This class was over. Ilya forced his tired eyes back open, standing up and stretching his long limbs in a prolonged motion. He let out a grunt as he finished, glancing around lazily to look for his friends. He shared this class with almost all of them. Everyone except Keely and Emi, who had taken Oil Painting instead of Mythology.
"To the students still remaining, I wanted to try to inform the whole class that I will be gone soon for the next month and a half due to a surgery." Mrs. Pensi, who the students so kindly called Mrs. Penis, spoke to the half-empty room. "But since they left, I suppose you guys are special. Just please behave for your substitute, and refrain from instantly scaring him off."
"Sure thing Mrs. P." Ilya saluted to her before joining everyone by the door. Like he always did, Kiwi walked beside him. If he wasn't right at Ilya's side, then he would have been worried. They always walked out of class like this, bickering along the way.
Kiwi wore an adorable peach sweatshirt that said always kind with the small embroider of a cactus below the tiny text. Ilya was digging it. "I thought about what you said."
A small crease appeared between Ilya's brows as he tried to figure out what Kiwi was even talking about. Had he said something so important that it needed to be thought over? He never really thought that he had that effect on him. A guilty part of Ilya kind of liked the fact that he did have that effect. Not because he wanted everyone to think about him, but because he wanted Kiwi to. However, he did his best to shove those thoughts away. He was being unfair. Ilya was not supposed to get too close in that way. It wouldn't end well, he knew that.
"The thing about getting scared and allowing the fear to bloom." Kiwi said with his hands gripping the edges of his books a bit tighter. The darker color of his skin turned pale from the pressure of his grip. Though his mother had been black, his father was as pale as a ghost, causing Kiwi to be an odd mixture between the two. "You said that it's more brave to allow fear rather than to deflect it."
"Did I?" Ilya mused, impressed with his past self. He did know that he said that, but he liked to pretend as thought there was still an air of mystery to himself. It made for a more enticing meal to those around. "I'm pretty damn clever, aren't I?"
With a roll of his eyes that was clearly for show and not because he was actually annoyed, Kiwi loosened his grip a bit. Ilya felt the soft waves of relief gathering at his feet. Though he hadn't been friends with Kiwi for as long as Emi had, he knew about the things that drove him insane. He didn't want to agitate him. He didn't deserve that. "You are. I'm glad you said that."
"Is this about that goodnight kiss?" Ilya teased, lightly tapping Kiwi on the shoulder with his elbow. Serious situations made him nervous, especially when they involved the wonderfully sweet boy walking beside him. They were always bickering—always exchanging joking words and playful thoughts. Whenever they got serious, it felt that the entire world became saturated. Because Kiwi was the brilliance to the world's colors. If he was upset, then the vibrance went along with his happiness.
"Oh, hush up." Kiwi took the bait, laughing lightly in that wonderfully unique way. Even before they really knew each other, Ilya always enjoyed the way that he laughed. It was always so warm. "We didn't even kiss."
"Mmm." Ilya hummed as though in deep thought. "I'm pretty sure that we exchanged the most heartfelt goodnight kiss known to man. You swooned in my arms as I professed my love, the moon started to sing gentle serenades, and a nearby fire hydrant squealed."
"Please don't indulge me in your wet dreams." He retorted in the same practiced manner that they exchanged everyday. Sometimes Ilya wondered if it was annoying—always acting this precise same way. No matter what, he had a way of turning things into something romantic or sexual. Did that ever get old? He suspected so. But that was who he was, and he liked talking that way.
Did everyone else like listening to it though? Did kiwi?
"I regret to inform you, Kiwi, but I indulge everyone in my wet dreams. No one is safe." He said with a sideways smirk on his face. Then they stopped in the hall, his eyes turning to see that Venice was now stood behind them both, waiting for Ilya and Kiwi to finally part ways so that they might get to their next class.
"Safety is a lie anyway. We live life on the edge!" Kiwi laughed, pretending to be all tough. No matter how hard he tried, he simply couldn't look intimidating. Well, not on the surface...
Venice glanced between the two of them, and Ilya knew what he was thinking. It probably had to do with their incessant "flirting," according to him. But they weren't actually flirting. They were just talking the only way that Ilya deemed fit. There wasn't anything unique to their specific conversations. Sometimes, Ilya wondered if talking like that all the time meant that some people might actually mean some of what was exchanged. How would he have anyway of knowing?
"See you later, Kiwi." With a wink, Ilya finally allowed the words out of his mouth. Venice waved gently as Kiwi turned down a different hall than they did.
As they walked in silence, Ilya's mind began to wander. Though he knew that it annoyed Venice, he was always worrying about him. They were more similar than they came across. Their backstories were far from similar, but their mindsets had an odd pattern of continuity.
Despite having so many friends, Ilya felt hopelessly alone. That was why he craved sexual attention so deeply, always seeking out anyone who might give him the time of day. They were always older men or women too, which probably had to do with what he assumed was daddy issues peeking through.
It occurred to him that he didn't think about his father much. Mr. Polyakov was a very interesting man who enjoyed sticking to his Russian roots. He was one hell of a hardass, which caused a lot of problems for Ilya growing up. However, he was older now, and he did what he wanted no matter what his Mama or Papa had to say in response.
They didn't particularly favor his lifestyle. To dress so feminine and screw grown men was a bit concerning to the pair. However, when he first brought home that boy in middle school, they didn't say a word. Ilya suspected that it wasn't his preferences that bothered them—it was the way he chose them.
Going to bars every night, getting utterly shitfaced and waking up in neighboring cities—it was horrifying for them to watch. They always said that they didn't come to America so that Ilya Polyakov could throw away his life. Once, he rolled his eyes at those words. That was one of the worst nights, and he was sure to never roll his eyes at a word his Papa said again.
Ilya supposed that Venice probably had mommy issues and daddy issues, and he couldn't decide whether or not Venice dealt with it in a better way. Probably not, but was there even a healthy way at all? Whether it was sex or self-sabotage, you have to let out those frustrations somehow. Has anyone ever really found a good way?
To his shock, Venice had the love and support of the Polyakovs. Not just Ilya, but his parents as well. It was his own Papa that took Venice in to begin with, aiding him from all of the horrors he had to face while still on the street. Ilya never did fully understand that. What did little Venice ever do that he hadn't?
Sure, he was an asshole and he couldn't go more than five seconds without turning things into an innuendo, but he was still their son. They had done this to him anyway, if they hadn't been so cruel to him as a child, he would probably have grown up to be a far different young man. Maybe he would have been the straightest and most modest young man anyone had ever seen.
But then that thought deflated instantly, because there was simply no universe in which an Ilya of that sort existed. He refused to believe that for even a second.
His older sister hadn't been like him. Evgenia grew up to be well-mannered and respectable. Unlike him, she proved herself to be useful. Ilya didn't buy that for a damn second, since she never worked a day in her life. All she did was find a snobby rich guy who was looking for a nice piece of foreign eye candy to show off to his friends. Then along came Eva, strutting down the street right into his palms.
To put it lightly, Ilya did not enjoy Eva's idea of being useful, and he especially didn't like her ugly-ass husband. Paul. One thing that Ilya always loved about American's was their names. He enjoyed the way they placed together letters to create lovely names for their children. But one thing was for certain, he did not enjoy the name Paul.
It didn't matter that he only liked her because she was ten years younger and had the body of a model. She had married into enough money for the Polyakov family to be able to afford that shit house and avoid getting deported. That meant that she did her part, so what was Ilya meant to do?
"You go to school and get good job. You build for you. Not me." Was what Mr. Polyakov once said in his broken Russian accent after Ilya failed a semester of Algebra in the eighth grade. It was supposed to make Ilya feel responsible for his future, but it only made him more pissed off.
Eva didn't get good grades. Eva didn't get a good job. But she still managed to build for her, so why couldn't Ilya do the same? There had to of been some old rich man on the verge of death who he could persuade to marry him. Then he would have money of his own. No more relying on Evgenia. Maybe one day she would have to rely on him instead.
All of that sounded nice, like as if it were the easy route out of it all. But in reality, it wasn't what he wanted to do. No matter how much his Mama and Papa pissed him off, he didn't want to be like Eva. He wanted to be praised because he had made something real for himself.
You build for you. Not me.
One day, even if it would be a million years from right then, Ilya knew that he was going to build something. If only he was sure of what that something was.