Chapter 3
Kirill does not think about his own mother.
He does not think about that dark, nebulous part of his brain that he's too afraid to name, because naming it will make it real, and if it's real...
Yes.
I hope your ass is ready.
I have big plans for it,
he sends.
That's clear enough, right?
As a precaution, he tacks on:
Plans like my dick
Yeah, I'd hope so
, Jesse replies.
Kirill chuckles and stands, clapping his hands together.
One hour until practice.
Plenty of time to stop by the antique store.
Kirill's first week in Westbrook, he spent the day on the Park.
Just sitting in the grass, listening in on conversations in annoying accents, some he could parse, some he couldn't.
Later, he would do what he was supposed to.
Go to clubs that didn't card, sleep with a woman or two.
Become the king of the city that he was destined to be.
Fuck Manning.
It was his now.
But for a few hours, he sat there.
Not Morozov, just Kirill.
Blending in and breathing.
A lesbian couple walked past pushing a stroller, and something in his chest loosened.
Kissing Jesse is like that afternoon.
There's this sense deeper than skin, deeper than bone, that he's where he needs to be.
This part he knows how to do.
He knows how to kiss Jesse, how to fuck him.
Even after his two day research spiral, it doesn't require much adjustment.
He's always been clear:
Are you okay?
Get on your knees.
Still want this?
Don't come yet.
But he keeps his voice quieter when he can manage it.
He keeps the room darker and he turns off the continuous fan so there's no excess of white noise.
He doesn't play music, though he never has with Jesse.
He does with all his other hook ups, choosing from one of six playlists curated for specific vibes—but not with Jesse.
He refuses to let a single moan or whimper be drowned out.
So it's not that different in the end, fucking a Jesse who he knows is autistic.
There's a fleeting moment or two where he worries that he's overstimulating him, but Jesse is still Jesse.
So beautifully, hypnotizingly vulnerable.
He begs for it and pleads and whines, lets Kirill know in twelve different ways that he wants this.
No, needs this.
After, Kirill grabs the wet wipes he had waiting on the bedside table.
This part is new.
Usually, he just sort of lounges for a few minutes until one of them can be bothered to shower.
Sometimes he showers first, which he's embarrassed by now.
He doesn't really mind cum drying on his stomach.
It's like a temporary tattoo.
But he's sure it makes Jesse squirm.
He doesn't need a think piece on autism to know that—it just seems obvious now that he thinks about it.
He gently runs the wipe over Jesse's stomach.
"Oh." Jesse's eyes widen.
"Um, do you need me to leave?"
"I can shower back at the hotel, I guess." He picks at the sheets with his fingers.
Stims with it.
"No no," Kirill says quickly, realizing his mistake too late.
He changed the routine with no warning, no explanation.
"Just...
don't want you to sit in the mess.
You have the first shower.
Whenever you want.
Okay?"
"Okay." Jesse gives him a fleeting, wary side-eye, but ultimately melts back into his post orgasm haze.
Kirill runs a hand through Jesse's hair, unable to help himself.
Jesse's hair is so soft, like a puppy crossed with a teddy bear.
"Is this okay?" Kirill asks, even if selfishly he doesn't want to be given a reason to stop.
He wants to do this forever.
No. Not forever.
Never forever.
Just...
for a few more minutes.
"My hand.
I can stop."
"Oh." Jesse's confused.
Of course he's confused.
Kirill has never asked for consent outside of sex.
He's just taken scraps of affection here and there when he thinks he can risk it.
"It's, um.
It's fine."
"Okay."
"I'm gonna...
shower." Jesse pulls away and Kirill's fingers move absently, searching for him.
He wills them to stop.
When Jesse stands to go, Kirill calls after him, "There is a lamp."
"In the bathroom.
There is a lamp now.
You can use it."
"Oh." Jesse frowns.
"Isn't that a fire hazard?"
He's so cute, Kirill wants to stand up just to pinch his cheeks.
"Is not
in
the shower, Hartley."
Jesse hugs his arms tight around his stomach.
"Why did you put a lamp in your bathroom?"
"Mood lighting," Kirill says, raising his eyebrows.
"Yeah, okay." Jesse snorts.
"If you don't like my lamp, maybe use the middle switch."
"Middle switch?"
Kirill's regretting not explaining this before sex.
Jesse's brain gets mushy when he's just been fucked and he came twice tonight.
It turns on the light without the fan.
It can make the bathroom hot though."
"Okay..." Jesse furrows his eyebrows.
Kirill's failing at this so miserably.
He just...
.Kirill knows firsthand that the world isn't comfortable.
It's loud, bright, demanding, a harsh place in direct opposition to everything he's recently learned about autism.
Is it so wrong that he wants Jesse to feel safe here?
To carve out a space where, even if only for a few hours, he doesn't have to grin and bear anything?
He can just be?
"I'm gonna..." Jesse heads into the shower and Kirill almost calls after him that he has salmon and rice in the fridge if he wants it.
That he ordered the brand of lemon pepper sauce Jesse talked about in a lifestyle video a few years back, that Kirill still sees in his kitchen.
Instead, he lets Jesse go.
He scrolls idly through his phone, swallows past the lump that always forms when they're nearing the time that Jesse has to leave.