Ilarion didn't hide the flash of relief in his eyes as he exhaled, slowly and swiftly.
"Khorosho," he whispered, with a concise nod.
Belatedly, he reached up with a halting hand and clapped Oleksei on the shoulder. Once. Pause. Twice.
He glanced at the dancer.
"I'll get you some water," he said, in a toneless, low voice that was unlike his normal timbre of careless, iced satin.
After a moment, he fixed his eyes meaningfully on Barshov.
"While I'm gone, behave. No matter what."
The dancer's eyes showed a slight flash of apprehension.
"Da, Kommissar," he said, and his voice was the low rustle of leaves.
Complicit, and at the mercy of the elements that pulled it in either direction, caressing one moment, battering in the next.
Ilarion's jaw seized and he turned on his heel abruptly, striding to to the unmarked metal door.
Then he paused, drew up to his full height like a militsioner, opened it and exited hastlessly.
It closed after him, clicking dryly in his wake.
The dancer closed his eyes.
A long silence fell in the Major's absence, but no finger was raised, and he felt no stinging kiss to the jaw, flying out of the clouds from ether. Not immediately.
So he was that kind of man. The one who savored his time.
Merkurii had met both. The other hated his work, hated the stain and weight of low, base blood on his knuckles, and infused his roughwork with an undertone of resentful anger at his own forced hand.
That man would rather not be doing what he did. Who detested the necessity, like a cat hating water. And yet, ironically, that very sentiment in him usually made the damage worse.
The Major, he thought, was a man like that. It was better that he had left, even if the dancer drew some odd, undefined confidence from his presence. He would not have the control that this man had. This man was a hobbyist.
Nothing came, so Merkurii's lips parted. His brow was moist with trepidation.
"I've broken my own bones, wittingly, for art. More times than I can count. I'm no stranger to fractures. I've danced on a broken ankle, bound straight with restrictive tape. After some performances, I've tipped a small lake of blood from my shoes."
A beat; pulsed silently, but palpable.
"There is nothing I can give to you, and nothing you can take from me in the currency of pain, that I cannot endure. Suffering is cousin to my medium."
He opened his eyes, hazel, and flinched in the low, swinging light of the barren room. It reminded him, in flashes, of that first, storming night when a coldly handsome MENT had come up the stairs like a ghost and confronted him at the barre. The MENT's eyes had been like ice, made liquid by pain.
Then, his crime had been real.
Now a different man confronted him, for crimes both real and imagined, and there was no torment in his gaze. Only a reverent, almost soft, devotion to violence.
This MVD man's fist was cocked, cannonball waiting to be touched by the lit kiss of a fuse.
The dancer realized something in the instant his lids unveiled, and the man's face was revealed again.
He had two unmatched eyes, like paired and disparate treasures from a sunday market.
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timeasmymeasure
no subject
Date: 2008-06-12 04:26 pm (UTC)"Khorosho," he whispered, with a concise nod.
Belatedly, he reached up with a halting hand and clapped Oleksei on the shoulder. Once. Pause. Twice.
He glanced at the dancer.
"I'll get you some water," he said, in a toneless, low voice that was unlike his normal timbre of careless, iced satin.
After a moment, he fixed his eyes meaningfully on Barshov.
"While I'm gone, behave. No matter what."
The dancer's eyes showed a slight flash of apprehension.
"Da, Kommissar," he said, and his voice was the low rustle of leaves.
Complicit, and at the mercy of the elements that pulled it in either direction, caressing one moment, battering in the next.
Ilarion's jaw seized and he turned on his heel abruptly, striding to to the unmarked metal door.
Then he paused, drew up to his full height like a militsioner, opened it and exited hastlessly.
It closed after him, clicking dryly in his wake.
The dancer closed his eyes.
A long silence fell in the Major's absence, but no finger was raised, and he felt no stinging kiss to the jaw, flying out of the clouds from ether. Not immediately.
So he was that kind of man. The one who savored his time.
Merkurii had met both. The other hated his work, hated the stain and weight of low, base blood on his knuckles, and infused his roughwork with an undertone of resentful anger at his own forced hand.
That man would rather not be doing what he did. Who detested the necessity, like a cat hating water. And yet, ironically, that very sentiment in him usually made the damage worse.
The Major, he thought, was a man like that. It was better that he had left, even if the dancer drew some odd, undefined confidence from his presence. He would not have the control that this man had. This man was a hobbyist.
Nothing came, so Merkurii's lips parted. His brow was moist with trepidation.
"I've broken my own bones, wittingly, for art. More times than I can count. I'm no stranger to fractures. I've danced on a broken ankle, bound straight with restrictive tape. After some performances, I've tipped a small lake of blood from my shoes."
A beat; pulsed silently, but palpable.
"There is nothing I can give to you, and nothing you can take from me in the currency of pain, that I cannot endure. Suffering is cousin to my medium."
He opened his eyes, hazel, and flinched in the low, swinging light of the barren room. It reminded him, in flashes, of that first, storming night when a coldly handsome MENT had come up the stairs like a ghost and confronted him at the barre. The MENT's eyes had been like ice, made liquid by pain.
Then, his crime had been real.
Now a different man confronted him, for crimes both real and imagined, and there was no torment in his gaze. Only a reverent, almost soft, devotion to violence.
This MVD man's fist was cocked, cannonball waiting to be touched by the lit kiss of a fuse.
The dancer realized something in the instant his lids unveiled, and the man's face was revealed again.
He had two unmatched eyes, like paired and disparate treasures from a sunday market.
Merkurii paused, surprised, caught off guard.