Nika had rarely felt this kind of anger; all consuming and vengeful.
He stormed down the narrow corridors, intent on his destination, which was no longer Ilarion's room, but the Dining Hall that lay just beyond this wing.
If he thought about it, it stood to reason that Isaev would have left his quarters for the morning, so not finding him there was hardly surprising.
Even so, Nika could not have imagined finding him here, among the other denizens of GRU, sitting at a common mess table like a beautiful nightmare on a rarified island.
Seeing him alone was enough to rachet Nika's wrath up several notches. His fingers closed, making an unconscious fist at his side.
The fuse was further lit when he saw Isaev look up, catch sight of him and begin to smile, slowly leaning back in his chair.
You fucking bastard.
Liadov scarcely registered the woman who sat at the table with him; she would hold little interest for him in the best of times. Hopefully she knew how to keep out of the way, for her own sake.
He surged forward, closing the distance in a matter of seconds. Both hands shot out and seized Isaev by the lapels, dragging him upward. Which was unexpectedly easy, because Lasha was not resisting.
On the contrary, he half-rose to meet Liadov's assault. In that moment the only thing to flash across his face was moderate bemusement, as if he were quite unaware of what was transpiring.
Liadov was beyond such pretty lies of countenance; knew them for exactly what they were.
"Smile, will you," hissed Nikanor, drawing him in close.
Ilarion cocked his head slowly, regarding him with insolent curiosity and more than a little ardence.
Contempt and disgust lanced through him at his own reflexive response. Innate, after so long, the answering trill of the telephone inside his ribcage.
His fingers twitched, clenching as he shoved Isaev back against the wall with studied violence.
"Nikash," exclaimed Ilarion, almost innocently, eyes wide in a rare moment of abject surprise, responding belatedly to the abrupt impact of the painted cinderblock.
"No," Nika bit out, tersely.
Liadov's chest heaved, as his eyes ground into Ilarion's, turning them to powder.
"...No more of that." His voice shook. "This time you've gone too fucking far, Ilarion."
His voice felt thick enough to choke on.
He was rarely moved to physical anger. Nika knew it himself, and he knew that Lasha knew it too. It was reflected deep in the grey glass of Isaev's gaze, a faintly stunned disbelief.
"You did it," spat Liadov, twisting his clutch hard under Isaev's lapel until the wending of the fine wool hurt his own hand. "It was you."
"What is that you think I did?" Lasha asked sharply, eyes narrowing in sudden suspicion, his words tinted with quiet alarm. "If I may ask."
"You don't need to ask," snapped Nika, coldly. "You already know."
"I really don't think that I do," countered Lasha, gaze fixed on his.
Nika smiled, but there was no humor in it. It was bloodless, loveless.
"Burn in hell, Ilarion Aleksandrovich."
"Nikasha-" began Ilarion, with an acute note of pain in his tone.
"Save your words. I know you told Aleksandr to bring me to heel. You asked him to pull me back. All I want to know is why you think that will serve you in any way."
There was a beat of perfect silence. Nika's knuckles tightened.
"Pull you back?" repeated Lasha, mystified, gauging his expression for clues but apparently finding nothing useful there. A note of cautious wonder invaded his voice. "Back...to Leningrad?"
"Of course," Liadov uttered, dangerously low and throaty. "Where else, Lasha. The only place you'll allow me to be."
"What..."
Lasha's lips parted, slowly, and his eyes shifted, as if watchworks were clicking into place.
Behind him, Nika heard a woman's soft cry of dismay, and then a small commotion of chairs scraping back, but bootsteps that paused halfway and fell quiet.
They had an audience, he knew. Any minute might bring intervention.
Or it might bring nothing at all.
In the moment, Liadov couldn't bring himself to care.
no subject
Date: 2009-01-05 10:32 am (UTC)He stormed down the narrow corridors, intent on his destination, which was no longer Ilarion's room, but the Dining Hall that lay just beyond this wing.
If he thought about it, it stood to reason that Isaev would have left his quarters for the morning, so not finding him there was hardly surprising.
Even so, Nika could not have imagined finding him here, among the other denizens of GRU, sitting at a common mess table like a beautiful nightmare on a rarified island.
Seeing him alone was enough to rachet Nika's wrath up several notches. His fingers closed, making an unconscious fist at his side.
The fuse was further lit when he saw Isaev look up, catch sight of him and begin to smile, slowly leaning back in his chair.
You fucking bastard.
Liadov scarcely registered the woman who sat at the table with him; she would hold little interest for him in the best of times. Hopefully she knew how to keep out of the way, for her own sake.
He surged forward, closing the distance in a matter of seconds. Both hands shot out and seized Isaev by the lapels, dragging him upward. Which was unexpectedly easy, because Lasha was not resisting.
On the contrary, he half-rose to meet Liadov's assault. In that moment the only thing to flash across his face was moderate bemusement, as if he were quite unaware of what was transpiring.
Liadov was beyond such pretty lies of countenance; knew them for exactly what they were.
"Smile, will you," hissed Nikanor, drawing him in close.
Ilarion cocked his head slowly, regarding him with insolent curiosity and more than a little ardence.
Contempt and disgust lanced through him at his own reflexive response. Innate, after so long, the answering trill of the telephone inside his ribcage.
His fingers twitched, clenching as he shoved Isaev back against the wall with studied violence.
"Nikash," exclaimed Ilarion, almost innocently, eyes wide in a rare moment of abject surprise, responding belatedly to the abrupt impact of the painted cinderblock.
"No," Nika bit out, tersely.
Liadov's chest heaved, as his eyes ground into Ilarion's, turning them to powder.
"...No more of that." His voice shook. "This time you've gone too fucking far, Ilarion."
His voice felt thick enough to choke on.
He was rarely moved to physical anger. Nika knew it himself, and he knew that Lasha knew it too. It was reflected deep in the grey glass of Isaev's gaze, a faintly stunned disbelief.
"You did it," spat Liadov, twisting his clutch hard under Isaev's lapel until the wending of the fine wool hurt his own hand. "It was you."
"What is that you think I did?" Lasha asked sharply, eyes narrowing in sudden suspicion, his words tinted with quiet alarm. "If I may ask."
"You don't need to ask," snapped Nika, coldly. "You already know."
"I really don't think that I do," countered Lasha, gaze fixed on his.
Nika smiled, but there was no humor in it. It was bloodless, loveless.
"Burn in hell, Ilarion Aleksandrovich."
"Nikasha-" began Ilarion, with an acute note of pain in his tone.
"Save your words. I know you told Aleksandr to bring me to heel. You asked him to pull me back. All I want to know is why you think that will serve you in any way."
There was a beat of perfect silence. Nika's knuckles tightened.
"Pull you back?" repeated Lasha, mystified, gauging his expression for clues but apparently finding nothing useful there. A note of cautious wonder invaded his voice. "Back...to Leningrad?"
"Of course," Liadov uttered, dangerously low and throaty. "Where else, Lasha. The only place you'll allow me to be."
"What..."
Lasha's lips parted, slowly, and his eyes shifted, as if watchworks were clicking into place.
Behind him, Nika heard a woman's soft cry of dismay, and then a small commotion of chairs scraping back, but bootsteps that paused halfway and fell quiet.
They had an audience, he knew. Any minute might bring intervention.
Or it might bring nothing at all.
In the moment, Liadov couldn't bring himself to care.