The morning of the wedding is a blur of preparation that Jason sees in clear and vivid snapshots.

There’s Andrew, freshly shaved at first light, flinging open the door to Jason’s bedroom to yank back his quilt, his grin bright and boyish. And there’s Lady’s velvet muzzle, softly snaffling Polo mints from his palm while her foal dances around her. Andrew’s expression after finding a note left in his teacup is another perfect picture. Jason can’t see whatever’s written on the fold of paper his brother cradles, but he’ll carry the expression it provokes to his grave, he’s absolutely certain.

It’s proof that true love exists, which will help get him through this morning.

The drive from the cottage to the hotel flies by to a quiet soundtrack of Andrew practicing the vows he’s written. He recites them under his breath as Jason drives along Roman roads carrying them straight to their destination. It’s an easy journey until they arrive to find each step leading to the hotel’s front door blocked by a small child from Chantel’s classroom, each one holding a handmade placard.

“What’s going on here?” Jason asks over the roof of the car after he gets out.

“No idea, mate.” Andrew’s a terrible liar. “We’ll never get past them. If only we had something to bribe them with.”

“Like what?”

Andrew scratches his chin, pretending to be thoughtful. “Like money, maybe? Made of chocolate, perhaps?”

“Of course.” Jason pulls out the box of gifts Chantel asked him to bring. Chocolate gold coins nestle inside that he last saw in the squat where he found Vanya. He stifles a sigh as they both crunch their way across the gravel to the hotel entrance, the children finding it hilarious to brandish signs saying No Money, No Bride, and Pay Up, or Keep Out.

“Good morning,” Andrew says politely. “I need to come in, if I may. I’m getting married this morning.”

“Not until you pay our ransom,” one child fiercely insists. “Miss Latham is our best teaching assistant. You’ve got to pay up if you want her.”

A teasing negotiation ensues, one Jason remembers Vanya describing as part of some Russian weddings.

Doling out chocolate coins gets them up the front steps and almost to the hotel door before one child resists temptation. She turns her nose up at the prize Andrew offers and reads out a demand from a homemade scroll.

“If you want your bride, you need to send in a neg—” She stumbles over the word. “—a negotiator.”

“I guess that’ll be me, then,” Jason offers before he’s swept through the front door by children who shout out his arrival. They’re a tiny tide that’s powerful, sweeping him up a staircase to a door that’s labelled Ransom Room.

It’s bittersweet in a whole new way that Garry’s son bars his entry.

“Halt,” Alfie says, his chest puffed up with importance. “If you want the bride, you’ve got to make an offer.”

“Who do I make the offer to?”

“To all of us!” a girl says, like he’s stupid, then she covers her mouth and giggles.

“Okay. How about if I talk to your teacher about getting some extra playtime?”

It’s a sweet deal that they seriously consider, their little heads tipped together as they loudly whisper before making a counter offer. “And a ride on Lady?”

“I could help you with that.” They cheer and then hold the door to a bedroom wide open.

Chantel sits on the far side of a familiar four-poster bed with her back turned, covered in a veil that’s dotted with hand-sewn daisies. He doesn’t know why the children laugh when he greets her by name or when he tells her that her veil is lovely, just like there’s no reason for them to slam the door behind him when he crosses the threshold.

Another part of Vanya’s discussion comes back to him—sometimes the bride gets switched for an imposter.

It’s Chantel’s veil he admires, all right, but it’s not her who wears it.

* * *

“What do you think you’re doing?” Jason backs up, the closed door solid against his back. “If this is your idea of a joke, I don’t find it funny.” He reaches blindly for the handle until Vanya mentions the one possible person who might stop him from escaping.

“I’m doing for Chantel.” He takes off the veil, setting it down very carefully. “I’m doing for her, so her class can be part of special day. They worked very hard to plan this.” His glance is fleeting, like eye contact is painful. “So you can’t go. Not yet. Leaving too soon will make them unhappy.”

For fuck sake, this is ridiculous.

Jason would argue if he could trust himself to speak without yelling. This is an act, that’s all, not a reason for his heart to hammer loudly.

But that hammering is an indicator—he’s nowhere close to over Vanya.

Even now he can’t help staring, worrying that he’s thinner. The shadows under his eyes mirror the pale purple of a folder he picks up, as if sleep has been hard to come by. He definitely looks exhausted as he hugs the folder tighter before sitting on the edge of the bed. He pats a spot beside him.

Jason struggles to keep his voice down. “You can’t seriously think we have anything to talk over.”

“Don’t have to talk.” Vanya’s smile is weak, watery like the November sunlight spilling through the window. His head drops a little. “I’m know this already,” he agrees. “I’m didn’t talk when you wanted. So it is only fair if you don’t.” He’s quiet but firm when he adds an explanation, “But I’m couldn’t talk then.” His eyes glisten as he corrects his pronoun. “I couldn’t.” He opens the folder. “Now I must.” He pats the spot beside him again. “Please. Sit.”

“I can hear just fine from here.”

“Want you to see.”

“I can see fine from here as well.” As lies go, it’s barefaced, but Jason can’t take one step closer, not when hauling Vanya into a tight hug seems a real risk. Instead, he keeps his distance, six feet from the bedside at least, like that distance lends some safety. “And damn straight you didn’t talk when I gave you the chance.” His gulp is so thick he wonders if Vanya hears it. “I gave you more than one chance. So couldn’t doesn’t cut it.”

Vanya only nods, then he carefully reads out a list in Russian, ignoring the interruption when Jason says, “You know I can’t understand you.” Vanya simply continues, drawing himself up straight instead of slumping, like reading each word requires extra backbone.

The words sound so foreign. There’s no way to know what they mean, no context to guess from.

Frustration quickly boils over.

Jason crosses the distance to glance cursorily at a list typed on headed paper. Next to it is an English translation. “Linear skull fracture,” he reads aloud for himself. “Concussion. Nasal fracture. Scalp lacerations. Phalangeal fractures. What the—?”

Jason pauses when Vanya adjusts his hold on the folder to stiffly wiggle his fingers and say, “Broke left hand only,” like that’s somehow lucky. He picks up where Jason left off, carefully shaping the next word in English. “Pneumothorax.” He glances up for a second, his gaze skidding just as quickly away. “Is collapsed lung,” he quietly adds before pulling up his shirt. The small star shaped birthmark between his ribs takes on a new meaning. “Needed tube here.”

He turns the page, saying the next words slowly, “Pneumothorax as a result of significant, sustained trauma.” Again with that quick glance. It only meets with Jason’s for a split second before a flush crawls from his neck to his jawline. As it climbs steadily upward, Vanya recites a broken path down someone’s body. Injuries sound otherworldly pronounced with a Russian accent, exotic instead of awful if Jason ignores that each one is personal not textbook. “Fractured ribs and badly bruised ones. Bruised kidneys also.” The finger that moves down the list as he reads pauses. “Pissed blood for very long time,” he says without looking up this time. “Testicular—”

“Stop.” Jason takes the folder from him. “What the fuck is this?” he asks while certain—suddenly completely certain—that he won’t like the answer. Vanya grasps his wrist before he can read any further.

“Sit.” This time, he’s insistent.

Jason’s glad he obeys when Vanya turns the next page.

The photos show a half-dead stranger, face bloated and mottled. “This—” Isn’t you, he almost blurts despite each photo being labelled. “Did you have an accident?” A car, he thinks, crashing at speed. It’s the only answer.

His head spins, dizziness making him grip his knees tightly when the last photo shows the bruised outline of a near-perfect boot print.

“Not accident.” Vanya turns the next page. A police report, the translation next to it suggests. “All was planned and on purpose.”

They sit in silence as Jason reads while children play in the hallway outside. Cars arrive as he turns pages, gravel crunching as they pull up to the hotel for a day that should be joyous. Chatter filters through the window as guests gather to witness the union of Chantel with his brother.

He should be out there with them.

He should be making sure everyone has a glass of Buck’s Fizz as any good best man would.

Instead, he can’t stop reading news report translations that are cold and cruel and callous.

“You were beaten.”

“Could say was my own fault.”

“What? How—?” Words die when Vanya places a hand over one of Jason’s. He leaves it there after Jason unclenches the fist he’s made without thinking.

“Should have known that using hook-up app on smartphone was bad idea,” Vanya says, like that makes sense. “Should have thought harder about saying I am student teacher on profile and agreeing to date with stranger.” He huffs out a small laugh. “But I’m not think with head. I’m think with other part of body.” His fingers squeeze Jason’s very lightly like he’s the one whose bones were fractured. “Most of all, I’m think I’m clever to wait until I’m far from home in biggest city to hook-up for the first time.”

Jason should move his hand out from under Vanya’s.

He should do it right now, but he lets that light weight pin him.

Vanya says, “But was actually very stupid. Stupidest.” The next page details exactly what happened to him. It summarises a claim for asylum based on near-death after well-planned violence and on the lack of future protection likely based on his government’s track record.

“You thought you were going to meet one person? But a group used an app to trap you?”

Vanya’s nod is slight. “Not only me.” He flips past photos of a shadowed alley to pages filled with screenshots of online debate forums. “Not illegal to be gay in Russia, but propaganda is criminal offence.”

“Propaganda?”

“They call it ‘Promoting lifestyle to children.’ I was so close to graduating. Would be teaching children by now….” This is all news to Jason. “But bad news quickly travels.” Vanya’s pause stretches as he wrestles with something, and his next words are halting. “I’m think my father came to the hospital to collect me, but he didn’t take me home. He drives to airport.” When Jason looks up from the page, Vanya’s eyes are closed tight. “Spent a long time thinking that was worst thing. Didn’t say goodbye to Mama. Didn’t explain to sister.” He opens them and they shine. “Father put me on a plane with passport and this.”

The letter is short and handwritten, Vanya’s translation right beside it in black ink.

The police investigation has ruined his father’s business. His mother has been abused on the street, and his sister now has no playmates. They’ll have to relocate and start over because of Vanya’s actions.

But the worst comes with the last sentence.

If he ever tries to make contact, his father will pass on his location so those men can finish what they started.

It’s so hard to believe that this was written by a family member.

Then Jason remembers something he thought he was over.

Is it really any different to the letter he read on his eighteenth birthday, once he could access his social services file? Hadn’t his mother written him off, revoking parental rights before he was even seven?

He’d felt rejected for years before then.

He wouldn’t wish that lingering feeling on another human.

Shouts of laughter ring outside this room, joy at this celebration contrasting starkly with Vanya’s expression. He stands before Jason can say a word, the folder slipping onto the bed covers. “Body was healing when I’m arrive in England. After a few months, could hardly tell was injured.” He pushes back the blond fringe that sweeps one side of his forehead. “Will always have scar here on hairline.” Then he touches where the fabric of his shirt hides the star-shaped mark between his ribs. “And here too. Not much to show, but my mind….” He taps his head. “My mind takes a long time to catch up.”

The folder lies open at its first page. Jason focuses on the final injury listed. “PTSD.”

“Not an excuse for lying.” Vanya whispers. “Not ever an excuse, but is part of reason.” Vanya picks up Chantel’s veil, holding it carefully with both hands before moving to the doorway. “Could tell you more, if you would listen. Could tell everything about needing safety more than good food or hot water. Is all easier to say now asylum is granted.” His glance flicks from the folder to Jason’s face. “Everything is easier now I’m legal, apart from one thing.” His smile doesn’t even get close to his eyes.

“What?” Jason crosses the room. “Tell me.”

“I’m think never seeing home again is worst thing.”

Children whisper on the other side of the door.

Vanya does so as well.

“Losing you is harder.”