As before, Oleksei seemingly underwent a strange postcoital transformation, becoming what for a man like him was probably almost benign.

That didn't exactly surprise Nika. He'd witnessed a similar phenomenon on numerous occasions, among men with hands no less callused and bloodstained.

Oleksei's action, however, did take him aback for a blink, though he did not betray it.

He might have remarked upon the degree of ever-warping twist in Oleksei's supposedly rigid lust structure, but thought any editorial comment best left unmade.

Instead, he cautiously raised his hand and cupped the back of Oleksei's head, feeling the softly bristled crop, running his hand over it in a careless ellipse. It was an absent, unloaded gesture.

"It's the way I prefer it," he said, simply. "And yet uniforms do have their cachet."

Nika let his head fall back against the cinderblock. He'd lost his cap at some point, and his head felt unseasonably bare, his hair curving and waving around his face and shoulders like some hedonist romantic era poet.

Fancy prick indeed, he thought dryly.

Aloud, he drawled, "I'd like to read your rap sheet, Oleksei. Next time I may demand a full viewing."