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"And how is the application process going, Artemy?"
Simon's baritone voice was calling to him from behind his desk. His bright, unnaturally blue eyes shone at him with what appeared to be genuine interest.
Artemy fidgeted in his sweater, pulling at the threads in his sleeves where Lara had dropped a few stitches. "All right, I guess," he said, hoping to change topic.
He didn't want to talk about his father's latest effort to put him out of his sight. University all the way on the opposite side of the country. Artemy knew it was either that or the military, and he supposed he had to be grateful that Isidor advocated for the former as a more favorable choice for him. You have the intellectual aptitude, he lied, though if you really must, the army trains surgeons as well.
When he was a kid, it was pushing him out the door all day to play with Stakh, Grief and Gravel in the abandoned warehouses. Before it was just pushing him out the door of their house—now, it was pushing him out of the Town itself. He missed those days when it didn't feel so obvious what his dad was trying to do.
And he missed when his old friends weren't so quick to give Artemy shit for complaining—he was expected to be grateful that Simon was so generously paying for his accommodations and tuition, after all. Especially since his father was a poor Kinsman. A respected elder, but broke, barely more than an enlightened slave of the Olgimskys.
His benefactor had hot tea set out; Artemy took a sip and let it burn his tongue. The old man rubbed his short beard. It was identical to the Judge's, as most things were, but for some reason it sharpened his features instead of dulled them as it did on his brother. Longevity didn't necessarily mean youthfulness, and while Simon definitely looked much older than, say, Victor, it would be shocking to say he was so much older than Georgiy. A stranger would have the opposite impression.
"Your father told me you had some hesitations. I'd be happy to discuss any doubts you might have. I don't need to remind you of my own experience with our nation's education institutions. My recommendation alone ought to carry some weight, if the dean knows what’s good for him, whoever he might be," Simon teased, with only a slight amount of menace in his tone.
"My father talked about me," Artemy replied flatly.
"Oh? Never," Simon replied similarly.
Simon could be oddly juvenile like that. All the Kains had odd quirks.
"Know that there are several avenues in which you can proceed. You don't have to decide right away."
Did my father tell you to say that? Artemy thought to himself.
"Take your time—believe it or not, the Town can survive without you. It has for generations."
"Then is it truly important for me to leave? I can get the same education here."
The Kin would say only devils had eyes like Simon's. They still did say that, actually, but respect underlined their fear.
"It's more important than you could possibly imagine. Your father understands this fact. He might know your Steppe Lines better than anyone, but his potential is limited to it. The bodies he metamorphosizes follow your religion strictly, and he can only reproduce what is known. But imagine: a Kin healer whose mind has been molded by the best of our European scientific knowledge. The bodies that man might touch would represent what our divided Town could be. He would, in effect, reconstruct the Town into what it was meant to be from the start."
Artemy couldn't help tuning out—it sounded like the idealistic prattle that Simon usually reserved for Isidor, and not meant for Artemy himself, necessarily. Besides, he was too caught up in his own thoughts.
"So this is all some experiment to you? How can you be so sure?"
The fire in Simon flashed. "Because it shall be as I say."
When he noticed Artemy's instinctive flinch, he cooled slightly. Then he did something unexpected—he grasped Artemy's shoulder.
"I recognize it's not doubt of me, but of your father's intentions. I take no offense."
He hated how easy he was to read, although it would've been foolish to think that he could evade Simon's all-seeing eye. He felt naked underneath it, vulnerable.
Moreso perhaps because of Simon's lingering hand. Though his father had known Simon for much longer than Artemy had been alive, the man rarely ever, if ever, touched Artemy. Isidor didn't either, for that matter. Touch wasn't something Artemy was used to from these men. He was shocked by how he nearly shivered, and had to catch himself—in Simon coursed remarkable amounts of latent energy, and he could feel it through every line, every vein of his body. His blood felt hot at the proximity.
"Will I really be that important?" Artemy asked again.
"Yes. Trust me, regardless of the evidence. You've no need to prove your worth to me now." Simon pulled away.
Perhaps it was stupid. It was actually very stupid, but for some reason, he was incredibly irritated with Simon. Using him as an experiment was par for the course for the Kains, so no surprise there. But the fact that he knew Artemy's feelings of inadequacy under his father, and had so casually laid them on the table, made Artemy prickle with an odd feeling. They talked about Artemy. They talked about him, played with his fate—and Artemy had no say in it at all. It's not even that he would detest attending a university, especially if it were handed to him on a silver platter as Simon was offering. It would be nice to get away, to see the world. Part of him had always entertained it when he was a kid, but those dreams were hampered by the increasing weight of the Master's chains, especially as he had gotten older—what other fate could there be for a Kinsman in this Town? But he hated that him attending university was their idea first, and that he was being strung along by them like some puppet.
"You're too generous with me, sir." He tried to avoid being obsequious, but he had no choice now. "At least let me earn this good faith, somehow."
Simon chuckled richly, and leaned back in his chair. "It's fine, I assure you. You're doing my house a favor, actually. Too many of our family's detractors claim we neglect the people's wellbeing despite our philanthropic work—well, getting your medical education is more than enough to make up for it. You’ll make a talented surgeon."
Artemy tried to avoid a sneer. "I still hate feeling like a charity case. Let me prove to you that I deserve it anyway."
"You could stand to have more humility, then. It's on account that I appreciate your father so much that I ever entertained this idea."
"Then let me show my gratitude."
It was foolhardy, even for him, but for some reason Artemy knew before he even rose from his chair and knelt by Simon's robed legs, and placed a tan hand on the old man's knee, that he would succeed.
For one, he knew that he was attractive. He got considerable attention at least in his own circles. And his mother, whom he shared his looks with, made waves back in the day for being a beauty—it was part of the scandal story in his father's relationship with her, actually.
Secondly, he knew he took after his father equally, as well. Let Simon come to his own conclusions—they might have the upper hand over him, but Artemy wasn't that much of an idiot. He's noticed things for years.
Simon gazed at him with stoked intrigue. Artemy kept him entertained, at least, and that was what was most important. Let him have something to write home about—let Isidor know what level of shit his son had gotten into this time.
Artemy's voice dropped low and husky, letting his breath fall hot over the old man's parted legs. "I'm not a puppet, or an experiment, or a charity case. I have plenty to offer of my own, if you'll let me show you."
"And what, exactly, could that be?"
"It's like you said. I can give you something my father won't."
Simon burst out laughing.
"'Won't?"
"'Won't, or can't. I'd like to think my father's good health would translate into a decent sex drive, even at his age, but who knows. Maybe it's not him that's the problem."
"That tongue on you," Simon shook his head, the insult glancing off of him like rain off of a glass window. "I suppose I'm compelled to prove myself to you, then? Very well."
At that, he swiped Artemy's hand good-naturedly away, and undid his robes and slacks. The thick velvet fell to the floor in a heavy and sensual thump. Underneath, Artemy was greeted with the sight of Simon's bulge.
"Have you ever considered that your father might want you out of Town for your own safety?" Simon hummed, mocking. "I might have patience, might even be amused by your blatant disrespect. But the Elder Vlad might not."
"I don't serve Fat Vlad," Artemy mumbled, already reaching for the old man's cock, slipping it out of his underwear. It was firm in his hands, smooth. "And neither does my father. He wouldn't even entertain the idea of sending me away just to appease him."
"Very well." Simon tipped his head back, satisfied, and adjusted in his seat. His cock was hard in Artemy's mouth, the bristles of his pubic hair scratching at the sides of his face as he took him in deeper. "Then perhaps the more subliminal reason might be your penchant for whoring yourself around," Simon hissed.
Before Artemy could remove the cock from his mouth to snap back, Simon shoved him back down with a firm hand to the back of his head. Artemy's throat tightened as he smothered the urge to gag, his eyes rebelling with painful tears.
"It's fine by me, however. Let others use your body as they see fit. I could hardly care what Isidor's son does, mingling with the common rabble in Town," Simon continued, speaking so calmly as if Artemy weren't even in the room. He dragged Artemy back up the length of his cock by the hair, and then pushed him back down again, as if Artemy's mouth were just another tool to him. "I can imagine Isidor's disgrace, though. Let's face it—the Kin have long since lost hope in you. You embarrass them in every way, shape and form. But, give a few years of separation and a degree, well, then maybe, just maybe, you might be worth something."
Simon glanced down at him, half-lidded, the crow's feet pinched in the corners of his too-blue eyes. His father’s religion was right. Men like him were never meant to exist.
Artemy dragged his tongue on the underside of his father's friend's cock. Maybe he couldn't speak, but he could stop Simon from talking. With another hand —the hands of a surgeon, they would one day say— he palmed Simon's balls, and with the other, he let wander up Simon's thighs, sides, higher. The man let out a small, contented gasp.
Artemy wanted to laugh.
***
Isidor's habitually morose face took on an air of dry impatience.
"I really don't need to hear you regale how you debauched my son, anymore. I just want to know if he decided to go forward with it."
Simon clasped his hands together. In them, he could still feel the memory of the sweat that glistened off the boy's tan neck, the thick ash brown hair that was the same color of his father’s, in his youth.
He rubbed them appreciatively. "I would think so. He imagines that by shaming you he's somehow taken ownership of the act."
"So he'll do it." Isidor let a reluctant sigh of relief escape.
Simon grinned sharply. "When all this is over, don't say I never gave your side a shot."