The dancer moved, with more lithe power in reserve than Isaev anticipated, swinging around to face him, jerking his lapel forward.
"Shove it in my mouth. My broken fucking lips. Bruise me more."
Lasha's eyes flared open, violently. He was speechless, and his hand shot up, seizing around the dancer's wrist.
"No fucking chance in hell," he intoned, coolly.
The dancer's gaze was weak, but not beaten.
Like Andrei's had been, in the aftermath of the fated bout, flecks of another man's blood dappling his skin. When at last he descended from the ring, down into Ilarion's arms, fatigue and gravity heavy on his brow, Lasha had wanted to crown him with laurel. It befitted a champion.
And he had, in a fashion.
Like Nika's was, in the wake of the first collapse, when he opened his eyes at the life-giving tincture of peppermint schnapps and injectable insulin, woke up in Ilarion's arms, softly breathing, where he belonged. When he looked down and found those prepossessing green eyes vulnerable and wandering, Isaev had wanted to lay him down on the persian carpet and slowly unlock all his hidden kingdoms, one by one, for Liadov to touch and see.
He'd already given him the key.
Ilarion shuddered, overcome and out of his depth.
Those eyes that never plead with him, even when they ached unbearably.
The dancer's grip persisted on his lapel, and he gazed downward, raising his hand to touch Barshov's silver-brown hair, brushing it away, cupping his cheek with firm, hungry need.
Needing to know. Could he salve this too?
Lasha tilted his head, slowly bending forward, bringing them near a kiss.
Then he let his mouth part to embrace the dancer's contused lips.
It was the only balm he knew, and all his heart recalled. What he reverted to, when passion flashed silver as a knife in the still waters of his breast.
Blot it out, with endorphins. The chemicals were indistinguishable from Mother love and brother's milk.
He ignored the tears that wet the man's palatial cheekbones, even when he tasted them.
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timeasmymeasure
no subject
Date: 2008-06-16 10:24 pm (UTC)The dancer moved, with more lithe power in reserve than Isaev anticipated, swinging around to face him, jerking his lapel forward.
"Shove it in my mouth. My broken fucking lips. Bruise me more."
Lasha's eyes flared open, violently. He was speechless, and his hand shot up, seizing around the dancer's wrist.
"No fucking chance in hell," he intoned, coolly.
The dancer's gaze was weak, but not beaten.
Like Andrei's had been, in the aftermath of the fated bout, flecks of another man's blood dappling his skin. When at last he descended from the ring, down into Ilarion's arms, fatigue and gravity heavy on his brow, Lasha had wanted to crown him with laurel. It befitted a champion.
And he had, in a fashion.
Like Nika's was, in the wake of the first collapse, when he opened his eyes at the life-giving tincture of peppermint schnapps and injectable insulin, woke up in Ilarion's arms, softly breathing, where he belonged. When he looked down and found those prepossessing green eyes vulnerable and wandering, Isaev had wanted to lay him down on the persian carpet and slowly unlock all his hidden kingdoms, one by one, for Liadov to touch and see.
He'd already given him the key.
Ilarion shuddered, overcome and out of his depth.
Those eyes that never plead with him, even when they ached unbearably.
The dancer's grip persisted on his lapel, and he gazed downward, raising his hand to touch Barshov's silver-brown hair, brushing it away, cupping his cheek with firm, hungry need.
Needing to know. Could he salve this too?
Lasha tilted his head, slowly bending forward, bringing them near a kiss.
Then he let his mouth part to embrace the dancer's contused lips.
It was the only balm he knew, and all his heart recalled. What he reverted to, when passion flashed silver as a knife in the still waters of his breast.
Blot it out, with endorphins. The chemicals were indistinguishable from Mother love and brother's milk.
He ignored the tears that wet the man's palatial cheekbones, even when he tasted them.
It might have been blood, after all.