Obed

May. 3rd, 2009 08:25 pm
taras_oleksei: (Default)
Paper rustled against the crook of his arm as Taras unlocked the door to his room. He adjusted the heft of the bag he carried carefully, pausing before stepping inside.

It was dim, the way he'd left it. He could see Lasha in the bed, stirring.

"Lasha?"

Taras set down lunch on the narrow side table near the door. He was hungry, mildly ravenous. Lunch and a nap sounded perfect, after he made sure Lasha was all right.

Ilarion lay back in the bed like an ailing tsar, somehow still regal in spite of his illness. He was like that. Even when Lasha had been dead drunk after the Winter Ball, he had still managed a little poise. At least until he'd passed out.

"I brought you something to eat."

It had been a few hours. A little longer than he'd intended, though maybe not, if he was honest about it.

It bothered him that what he had done with Liadov did not bother him too much.

Taras sat down next to Lasha.

"You feeling any better?"

Midmorning

Apr. 8th, 2009 11:47 pm
taras_oleksei: (Default)
Taras Oleksei stood in the hallway outside his room, listening at the door.

There had been no Lasha at the mess hall for breakfast, and no Lasha in the office. Anya had brought Taras tea for one. He'd sipped distractedly, making notes on the pathologist's notes.

It was unlike Lasha to be late to anything, and it was unlike him to sleep in. Taras hadn't seen him since that morning, when he'd left his own bed, with Lasha in it.

Lasha had still been asleep next to him when Taras woke up. Taras' first thought was that what had happened before with Lasha had happened again, somehow, without him knowing it.

It had not, he'd determined, after a few moments, but just the same, he'd thought it best to take a quick shower and shave, and get out of the room before Lasha stirred.

He'd brushed his teeth with his own toothbrush, and then done just that.

Now he needed to find out where Lasha was, and Taras' room was the last place he'd seen him.

He unlocked the door.

Still dim inside, curtains drawn, but enough light to see a vaguely Lasha-shaped lump in the bed.

Taras' chest clenched for a terrible moment, until he saw the covers rise and fall. He closed and locked the door behind him.

"Lasha?"

Short platinum hair on the pillow, bare neck and shoulders. Lasha curled on his side, eyes shut, still out.

Taras frowned, and sat down on the bed. He pulled off his glove and laid his hand carefully against Ilarion's forehead, which felt overly hot, and slightly damp. His cheeks were flushed.

"Lasha?" he tried, again. "You okei? What's wrong?"
taras_oleksei: (Default)
Taras dreamed about the Zone.

He did that sometimes, in spite of the fact that he was further from it now than he'd ever been. Dreams were one place where even the long arm of the Ministry didn't reach.

His dreams about the Zone were usually short and to the point, about either fucking or fighting, sometimes both, at the same time.

This one was different, more detailed, and yet wholly surreal.

In the dream, he'd been sent up north again for some reason, and not even his clean record and rank and all the power of the Isaevs had stopped it. But Magadan was somehow more like the MVD Winter Ball, and everyone there was dressed as either an inmate or a guard.

Taras was wearing an inmate costume, complete with a scowling mask and clothes dyed to appear grimy. He wandered the halls, which were decorated like bare concrete walls and barbed wire huddled below a stark and distant sun.

It seemed like everyone was having a good time with the whole thing, guards mixing with inmates, inmates talking and laughing and drinking. Instead of labor camp, the inmates had to cart in trays of hors d'oeuvres, though they ended up stealing more than they served.

Taras had managed to sneak away so he could look for Isaev, but he hadn't been able to find him. He kept looking, and after a while he came upon two guards arguing in a hallway, and realized they were Isaev and Liadov.

As he listened to them argue, Taras decided to do it right this time, to kill Liadov before the guy saw it coming. But before he could make his move, Liadov suddenly pushed Isaev back, and then they started fucking, Magadan-style, up against the wall, hot and hungry and violent.

Taras woke then, pulse racing, erection pressed against his thigh, feeling vaguely unsettled and disoriented.

It was dark, but the bed was soft, and after a few seconds, Taras heard breathing.

He relaxed automatically without knowing why, but then remembered that he was at Isaev's, in his giant bed, and they had celebrated Anya's birthday with a few fairly depraved acts.

Slowly, he became aware of something else, a solid weight under his arm, a warmth against his chest and leg.

Taras realized at some point during the night, he must have rolled on his side, closer to Isaev, and draped an arm possessively over his hip.

But Isaev must have moved closer as well, undoubtedly seeking heat, maybe thinking he was Anya. Ilarion's leg was thrown over his, and his arm was tucked against Taras' chest.

Their heads were close. Isaev's breathing was steady, near as Taras could tell, but it was Taras' lungs that rattled.

He went still, wondering if he should pull away before Isaev woke up, but then again, that would probably wake him immediately.

Ilarion's hip felt smooth and warm.

Taras frowned.

August 2010

S M T W T F S
1 234567
891011121314
15161718192021
22232425262728
293031    

Syndicate

RSS Atom

Most Popular Tags

Style Credit

Expand Cut Tags

No cut tags
Page generated Jul. 25th, 2017 12:45 pm
Powered by Dreamwidth Studios