Interrogation
Jun. 9th, 2008 01:42 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
taras_oleksei"I don't get it," Taras said.
He was frowning as they walked, using the time to think. He actually lagged behind Isaev a little.
Ilarion never hurried anywhere, though today he strode down the hall, bootheels ringing with a clarity of purpose. Only Taras wasn't clear.
They passed a window. Outside, it was still foggy, a thick white mist that enclosed the MVD building like mountains of snow, insulating and isolating, as if they were in some remote place up north, not in civilized Leningrad. Taras didn't like not being able to see across the street.
He looked away, turning back to Isaev.
"This guy is under suspicion of..."
A secretary approached, clutching a stack of files to her chest. She stepped aside to let them pass, squeezing so close to the wall it seemed like she was afraid they would knock her aside. She murmured something as they walked by.
Taras glanced behind them, to make sure she was out of earshot, though he wasn't sure why.
"...muzhelostvo. And some other political shit."
Their destination loomed. The doors to the interrogation rooms were simple, marked with numbers, but nothing else. Almost benign.
Taras stopped at the first door, then imposed himself physically between it and Ilarion, putting his hand on the frame to block Isaev's entry. Ilarion looked at him as if he had finally noticed Taras was there. His eyes were narrow, slivers of ice. Taras stared back.
"This isn't a violent crime, Isaev. So what gives?"
He was frowning as they walked, using the time to think. He actually lagged behind Isaev a little.
Ilarion never hurried anywhere, though today he strode down the hall, bootheels ringing with a clarity of purpose. Only Taras wasn't clear.
They passed a window. Outside, it was still foggy, a thick white mist that enclosed the MVD building like mountains of snow, insulating and isolating, as if they were in some remote place up north, not in civilized Leningrad. Taras didn't like not being able to see across the street.
He looked away, turning back to Isaev.
"This guy is under suspicion of..."
A secretary approached, clutching a stack of files to her chest. She stepped aside to let them pass, squeezing so close to the wall it seemed like she was afraid they would knock her aside. She murmured something as they walked by.
Taras glanced behind them, to make sure she was out of earshot, though he wasn't sure why.
"...muzhelostvo. And some other political shit."
Their destination loomed. The doors to the interrogation rooms were simple, marked with numbers, but nothing else. Almost benign.
Taras stopped at the first door, then imposed himself physically between it and Ilarion, putting his hand on the frame to block Isaev's entry. Ilarion looked at him as if he had finally noticed Taras was there. His eyes were narrow, slivers of ice. Taras stared back.
"This isn't a violent crime, Isaev. So what gives?"
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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.