He closed his eyes, the dull ache from the press of the MENT's broad thumb on the fresh bruise lingering beneath his eye.
Of course, he had lied out loud about the contusion. Blamed it on Khatachurian.
It was the only wisdom left to a man, to do the Ministry's work for them.
Like an abused wife, he thought, with fatalist amusement.
Oleksei- that was what his uniform said- Oleksei was rubbing against the grain of the cut with studious attention. He had seen a lot of fist-inflicted wounds, clearly. For a moment, the dancer was tempted to ask him if he thought it would scar. And if so, would it add charm to his face or subtract it?
"Don't worry about that, officer," he drawled. "I fall down stairs. I bump into doorknobs. I'm clumsy."
Merkurii paused, after a moment, and let the weight of his head come to rest in the miasnik's hand.
"...Your friend the kommissarevitch could attest to that."
He should know. I tripped and fell right into his mother.
It was a weighted, loaded portmanteau, to combine kommissar and tsarevitch, a pun that skirted the edges of class and truth.
Merkurii took a deep breath, releasing it slowly, slowly.
He thought about the blond kommissar, the oddly tender way he came alive in the gilded cage of his bedroom, embracing their private sanctuary with hedonist devotion. How he'd kissed the dancer's bruised feet as he fucked him slowly and steadily, upright on his knees in the obscuring darkness.
Ask, and you shall receive.
Soviet edition: Ask, and you're going to get it.
Mercurii raised his eyes, breathing shallow, shame in his gaze, as if the dark-headed mongrel man-beast who regarded him now could read his thoughts.
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timeasmymeasure
no subject
Date: 2008-06-13 10:28 am (UTC)"Not everyone can be an artist."
He closed his eyes, the dull ache from the press of the MENT's broad thumb on the fresh bruise lingering beneath his eye.
Of course, he had lied out loud about the contusion. Blamed it on Khatachurian.
It was the only wisdom left to a man, to do the Ministry's work for them.
Like an abused wife, he thought, with fatalist amusement.
Oleksei- that was what his uniform said- Oleksei was rubbing against the grain of the cut with studious attention. He had seen a lot of fist-inflicted wounds, clearly. For a moment, the dancer was tempted to ask him if he thought it would scar. And if so, would it add charm to his face or subtract it?
"Don't worry about that, officer," he drawled. "I fall down stairs. I bump into doorknobs. I'm clumsy."
Merkurii paused, after a moment, and let the weight of his head come to rest in the miasnik's hand.
"...Your friend the kommissarevitch could attest to that."
He should know. I tripped and fell right into his mother.
It was a weighted, loaded portmanteau, to combine kommissar and tsarevitch, a pun that skirted the edges of class and truth.
Merkurii took a deep breath, releasing it slowly, slowly.
He thought about the blond kommissar, the oddly tender way he came alive in the gilded cage of his bedroom, embracing their private sanctuary with hedonist devotion. How he'd kissed the dancer's bruised feet as he fucked him slowly and steadily, upright on his knees in the obscuring darkness.
Ask, and you shall receive.
Soviet edition: Ask, and you're going to get it.
Mercurii raised his eyes, breathing shallow, shame in his gaze, as if the dark-headed mongrel man-beast who regarded him now could read his thoughts.
Make the punishment fit the crime.
"How would you have done it?" he asked, invited.
Slowly, inexorably, like the closing of a tomb.