He wondered if anything inked on his skin would surprise Liadov, or give him pause. Lasha had named him a murderer in front of Liadov, upon their first official meeting, and Taras had not denied it. Knowing that did not give Liadov pause now, and for a man like him, there could not be many things that were worse.
Taras supposed he would find out.
He gazed at Liadov for a few moments, watching thoughts flicker behind his low-lidded gaze. Liadov looked relaxed, clearly sated, maybe almost amused. This was Liadov with his guard down, with no resentment or ire.
It reminded Taras of the Zone, and the way that pacts and promises were made.
There was no bloodletting to seal oaths. Instead, men made their deals in the aftermath of orgasm, and consecrated them in the mixing of their seed.
Slowly, almost hesitantly, he raised his hand, and brushed his fingers through the thick forelock that fell across Liadov's face, just enough to uncover a half-hidden eye. The motion felt strange, like the way he would touch Lasha, but he carried it through.
His brow thickened, drawing low.
"Are you going to come to Leningrad?" he asked, quietly, letting his voice carry the weight the question deserved. "Or are you going to fight it?"
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
timeasmymeasure
no subject
Date: 2009-01-26 05:45 pm (UTC)"All right. I want you to know who I am."
It was right, he thought. Because of Lasha.
He wondered if anything inked on his skin would surprise Liadov, or give him pause. Lasha had named him a murderer in front of Liadov, upon their first official meeting, and Taras had not denied it. Knowing that did not give Liadov pause now, and for a man like him, there could not be many things that were worse.
Taras supposed he would find out.
He gazed at Liadov for a few moments, watching thoughts flicker behind his low-lidded gaze. Liadov looked relaxed, clearly sated, maybe almost amused. This was Liadov with his guard down, with no resentment or ire.
It reminded Taras of the Zone, and the way that pacts and promises were made.
There was no bloodletting to seal oaths. Instead, men made their deals in the aftermath of orgasm, and consecrated them in the mixing of their seed.
Slowly, almost hesitantly, he raised his hand, and brushed his fingers through the thick forelock that fell across Liadov's face, just enough to uncover a half-hidden eye. The motion felt strange, like the way he would touch Lasha, but he carried it through.
His brow thickened, drawing low.
"Are you going to come to Leningrad?" he asked, quietly, letting his voice carry the weight the question deserved. "Or are you going to fight it?"