taras_oleksei | Evening

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Evening

Taras lay in his bed, and thought he could still smell Lasha.

He had woken up alone again that morning.

It had been full dark yet. He'd lain quietly in bed for a moment, groggy and disoriented, listening to the wind hiss between buildings outside, reaching for the cool sheets next to him.

Lasha was sick, he had recalled, almost immediately.

That had given him the impetus to get out of bed. He'd looked at the clock. It was well past three. Taras got dressed, and went looking for Lasha.

He wondered which he was getting more used to: expecting Lasha to be there when he woke, or finding that he was alone instead. He supposed one went with the other.

He'd swung by their office first, then on a strange hunch, Liadov's. Both were empty. The mess hall had been Taras' third or fourth possibility, and it was there that he had found Lasha.

But Lasha had not been alone. He'd been sitting at a table with Liadov.

Isaev and Liadov in their grey uniforms, sitting across from each other, like comrades.

Fancy pricks, both of them, tall and blond haired. Lasha was arctic smooth and sleek while Liadov was more languid and sensual.

The sight of them together had made Taras feel strange inside, and his chest ached with an emotion that was not quite anger, or anything else he had a name for.

Taras had stood in the doorway, watching them for a while, mismatched gaze fixed and ravenous.

Eventually, he had turned away, and left them.

He had seen Lasha, later that day, looking a little pale but carrying himself with unthinking grace, as always. More or less normal. It was the less that worried Taras, but he hadn't seen any sign of Ilarion faltering.

Taras had hit the gym hard that evening, then showered and eaten, like usual.

Now, he lay awake in the darkness, thinking.

Finally he got out of bed, and pulled on his pants, and a clean undershirt, and grabbed a newly-acquired bottle of cognac off the counter.

His door was one down from Lasha's.

Taras knocked on Isaev's door.

"It's me, Lashka."

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Kassian licked his lips.

He felt a lingering unease at Ilarion's dark words and glanced down, distracted for a moment by the tattoo on his chest, which had an eerie sort of resonance to it, as if it were watching him circumspectly. Perhaps it was more disturbing to him because he had just been thinking about Oleksei's blind eye watching him as well.

Kassian would not have figured a Ministry major to be marked up like a criminal, but it was not exactly like the crude, faded line drawings that adorned Oleksei's thick arms.

It was jet black and crisp, and as sigils went, for a Ministry major, for an Isaev, it seemed somehow appropriate. A watchful eye. An evil eye.

He averted his gaze, before Lasha caught him staring.

"Major Liadov - " he started, hesitating as Isaev lifted his head to stare narrowly at him.

Invoking the name Nikanor Liadov in Ilarion's presence was no casual matter.

"Major Liadov," he said again, "suggested to me once that I become a MENT."

He took a slow sip of vodka.

"I have to think he's a good judge of character. That's what comes to mind first, but I'm sure there are other things. Legitimate, or otherwise."

Kassian leaned forward, and grasped Lasha's arm. He thought the sudden contact might have surprised them both.

"Major Isaev...please. I need you to know I'm not being cavalier. And I'm not being naive. I know what it means to love an Isaev. I told Andrei once that I'd sail between a rock and whirlpool for him, that I'd walk through Hades without looking back. I meant it. That's why I'm here. That's why I came to you, and not anyone else."

Ilarion was looking down, faintly incredulous, to where Irinarhov's hand clutched his arm through soft cashmere.

After a moment he raised his eyes, pale and colorless in the dusky room.

"I don't believe you."

He said it because he nearly did.

Lasha breathed in and out, slowly, holding Irinarhov's dark gaze in a penetrating lock.

"Lambs might grow up to be wolves, Captain, but sheep don't turn into them unaided. Remember who I am, Captain. Remember where and how your own father died. Remember the men in grey who came silently by night to tell you the news."

His lip curled, subtly, like burning paper. Soft contempt in his eyes.

"Nikanor Grigoriivich sat at your troika, did he not. He condemned you. And yet you forgive him enough to keep his counsel?"

Lasha's eyes flicked away at his own mention of Liadov, as he recalled the informal pax of the earlier day. Everything had seemed to ease between them, as if a blue calm had descended, and in the aftermath he no longer seemed immune to his own hypocrisy.

"What makes you want to become the enemy? What makes you want to walk among us?"

Kassian dropped his gaze.

His eye fell for a moment to his hand, which still clutched at Isaev's arm. It was as if it had acted of its own accord. If Kassian were in his right mind, he told himself, he would have never dared.

It suddenly occurred to him that he should be glad that Oleksei had left them, and had not been around to see this.

Slowly, Kassian loosened his grip.

"Andrei asked me the same thing."

He glanced up again, sitting back slightly.

"About Major Liadov, that is. How could I call him a friend, when he voted to strip me of a rank, and send me up to this assignment in the Urals, in the middle of nowhere."

Kassian brought his drink to his lips, and had to take a long swallow.

"I told him what I'm telling you now. That I owe Liadov for the fact that it didn't turn out worse for me. The others in the troika wanted to send me to the Zone, but it was Liadov who argued for leniency."

Kassian shook his head, firmly.

"I truly believe that he saved my life. I'm not the kind of man who would have gotten along well in that...environment. Unlike - "

Kassian realized the presumption of what he'd been about to say, and pressed his lips shut, momentarily.

"...others," he finished.

"Major Liadov has a menstruating heart," intoned Lasha, coolly. "It will be the death of him. Once, it almost was."

He straightened the sleeve of his robe absently.

"That said, I cannot fault his professional acumen. Nor his understanding of human nature. It's true that a former militsant can make an excellent politsant. There's no reason it couldn't be true in your case."

He studied the sniper's face, peregrine-like, the low, straight brow and strong nose.

"Perhaps you do have the character. Perhaps you have the temperament."

Ilarion's expression was wintry.

"But you must understand, this is not the Young Pioneers. There are informalities you would be expected to embrace, without any qualm of conscience. I don't know that you have the flexibility, sniper. There is no honor, no compassion. Only power, and ambition."

Kassian nodded silently. His jaw was taut.

"I don't know either, honestly," he said, quietly.

He set down his drink. Kassian brought his hand to his face and rubbed it, feeling the roughness of stubble, more than just a day's worth.

The room was dim and warm around them, and reminded him of sleep.

He blinked and looked back at Isaev.

"But for your brother, I have to try. And..."

Kassian felt something steel inside him, an inner resolve that had been part of him for so long, he could not remember a time without it. It had carried him through the war and all that had come after, and it occurred to him that this was no different.

Ilarion stared back at him, silent, and evaluating, much like the men of the troika who had judged him.

It was actually much the same as well, Kassian thought. Ilarion was judging him, wondering at his fitness to be his brother's...comrade.

Like Andrei, he would accept nothing but the best.

Kassian raised his chin, and held Ilarion's gaze.

"I've killed over two hundred and twenty-nine men in my lifetime, Major. I know people die regardless of if it's fair, or what they've done. I've been the one who killed them, and I sleep fine at night. I have to guess that there aren't a lot of men in the Ministry with a record like mine."

Ilarion's eyebrows raised, and he smiled faintly. There was no humor in it.

"Believe me, there are worse things one can do to a man than killing him. Things that leave him praying for death."

He sighed, brushing nonexistent things off his lapel.

"I'm not concerned about your ability to pull the trigger, should the need arise. By virtue of your trade, that's a obviously a given."

Irinarhov had seemed to miss the point of what he was saying, or ignored it deliberately- the part about what the nature of the beast in question really was.

"In this State, there are no white knights. Only black. What you don't yet comprehend is that corruption and judgment and mercilessness will be the coin of the realm, if you work in the Ministry."

Lasha frowned sharply, glancing to the side.

"With few and rare exceptions."

"You mean Liadov," Kassian said, quietly.

He studied Isaev's face for a moment, then he had to avert his eyes.

Kassian imagined that Liadov was a rare exception in more ways than one, especially for Lasha.

"He's told me a couple of stories about...his experiences in the Ministry. Some things he did, and what happened to him as a result."

It felt abruptly strange to be having a drink with Ilarion and to be talking about Liadov, when it had been exactly the opposite before.

He reached for the vodka to pour himself another shot.

"He told me about...the iron worker. What happened at the mausoleum. And the man you shot, to save Liadov's life."

Kassian thought that the image of Liadov's face when he looked up at him to whisper 'sometimes it's horrible to be forgiven' would stay with him forever.

He exhaled, slowly.

"So...I'm familiar with a little about what being in the Ministry is like."

Ilarion shifted his gaze back to the sniper's face, pointedly.

"I wasn't speaking of him, in particular. I don't speak of him."

It sounded petulant, he realized, and he smoothed out his expression at once.

His fingers toyed restlessly with his glass.

His mouth twisted slightly, as he glanced away, putting the glass to his lips. The cognac bit at them sweetly.

There was a silence.

"He speaks of me."

It was almost a question.

"He does speak of you."

Kassian lifted the glass, and pressed it to his temple. In spite of the fact that the liquid within was not chilled, it was cold enough, and felt soothing.

"I get the feeling you're never far from his thoughts, actually."

He pretty much got the feeling that it was the same for Lasha in turn, that Liadov was often on his mind, whether or not he chose to speak of him.

Kassian let that sit for a few moments, to let Lasha do what he wanted with it. He gave him the silence to let him savor it, if he wanted, while Kassian drank.

It was not uncomfortable, he realized.

"In a way, I feel like...I've become entwined with your family as well, and it started long ago. If you're questioning my fitness to be a MENT, I can understand that. But regardless...I want to go to Leningrad. I'm a man who solves problems, Major. I can do this."

It told him nothing that Liadov hadn't already said to his face, and yet it still soothed his ruffled insides to hear from another pair of lips.

He did not react, however. It did not become an Isaev to disclose, or to betray private emotions.

Instead he took another drink.

Irinarhov was persistent, that was surprising. The tenacity. Unexpected. Unaccounted for.

Ilarion wondered at Taras' self restraint in not reappearing yet.

His eyes traveled over Irinarhov, appraising him coolly.

He was feeling magnanimous, as he'd predicted.

"Very well," he said at last.

He nodded slowly, taking a sip of cognac.

"When you reach Leningrad, I'll set you up prettily."

Lasha held his gaze, narrow eyed.

"After that, it's up to you."

Kassian nodded, slowly.

"Thank you," he said, first. "And I understand. I wouldn't have it any other way."

He sat back, and took a very long drink.

It occurred to him that his father was probably rolling over in his grave. He imagined that Ilarion was not unaware of the irony, either. This was the man who had mocked him in his hour of pain. This was the man who had threatened his mother.

Kassian was the man who had punched Ilarion in the face.

And now he had asked Isaev for a favor, and Isaev had granted it.

He looked over at Ilarion, and was reminded of what he had said earlier, about Caesar. It was apt. Caesar had the power to grant favors to soldiers who had served well in the wars - Roman citizenship, land, power, choice assignments.

Though of course, neither Caesar's favors, nor Ilarion's, came without a price.

"And," he said, slowly, meeting Lasha's eyes, "I understand how it works. I'll owe you for this, and I'll repay when you ask."

"You sound as if you're eager to renumerate me, Irinarhov. But I'm not a crimelord."

Ilarion eyed him neutrally.

"You don't owe me for anything. I take care of my brother's interests."

Possessions.

"It's nothing, to do this. Easily met. And if you prove to be good at your job, so much the better."

Lasha shrugged with a frosted smile.

"If you're not, incompetency can be hidden in a myriad of ways."

He reached for the cognac bottle and poured another shot. He wondered how many he'd had, without Taras' assistance, but he did not feel at all impaired.

His lip twisted slightly.

"And of course, you will need to give me your departmental preference for assignment, who you'd prefer to report to, etcetera."

Lasha took a measured sip and let his head fall back slightly, exposing the column of his throat without fear.

"Factum. Fiat est."

"Da. So it is."

Kassian sat back. He felt strangely suspended and a little stunned, as if the full impact of what he had just done had not yet hit him. It probably had not. It still felt surreal.

Slowly, he rubbed his face. It occurred to him that he needed a shower, and a shave, and he decided to do that when he left the Major's room.

He glanced at Ilarion.

There was still part of him that thought he could not trust Andrei and Liadov's Lasha, but this man was a man he was starting to understand. Kassian could not see Prince Ivan on his wolf when he looked at him, though he supposed there was far more of Lasha to know.

Kassian turned his thoughts back to the matter at hand.

"I don't know..." he started, trailing off.

His eyes flicked back and forth rapidly.

"I'm not sure what it's called," he amended, but more firmly. "But I'm interested in the department that investigates crimes. Like Major Liadov. Though I don't know who I could potentially be reporting to."

He glanced at Isaev.

"If you have a recommendation, I'd be glad for it."

Ilarion frowned, idly scratching his jaw lightly with a tapered index finger.

"There's a protocol in place for military men. Sort of a transitional program. You learn the ropes working as a regular militsant. Violent crimes can use you in our investigations. And then, if you want to be a detective, perhaps we bring you in."

Lasha yawned gently. It was warm and soothing by the porcelain tiled stove.

"I'll let Oleksei supervise you, one on one."

There was a menacing lilt in his voice, almost imperceptible.

"Or maybe I'll do it myself."

Kassian nodded.

"Right. I'm sure that would be - "

He paused over the adjective to use, imagining the way Oleksei would supervise him. Probably with a lot of hard contact. Good somehow fell short.

Kassian grimaced faintly.

"Instructional," he finished. "Either way."

He was not particularly relishing having to ask Oleksei to give him back his sidearm.

"I understand the protocol though. I don't mind mind staring as a militsant. It'll give me a chance to figure out how everything works."

Kassian paused, regarding Ilarion for a moment.

"Do you have a recommendation as to which department? I realize you don't know me that well, but you do know the Ministry."

Ilarion tilted his head, giving Irinarhov a prolonged and dispassionate look.

Something had occurred to him.

"Frankly, Irinarhov, I don't know why you'd bother learning a new trade at your age when I could just put in a call and have you hired on as a sniper for MVD spetsnaz."

He glanced at his nails, absently, buffing them against his lapel.

"Problem solved."

Kassian stared at Isaev mutely for a moment.

He frowned, finding himself at a loss.

"I..." he started, glancing around. His gaze shifted from the stove to his black boots, to his rifle leaning against the buffet.

Kassian shook his head, vaguely.

"It didn't occur to me that you had snipers. Though now that I think about it...of course there would be non-military applications in an urban environment..."

He trailed off. He could think of a few, off the top of his head.

He ran a slow hand through his hair.

"I was thinking that maybe I should...branch out with my life. To not have to depend on the only thing I know how to do."

That was the perspective of a person who had been born to privilege, he realized, and an extraordinary privilege at that. Most men did what their fathers did. Had it not been for the war, surely he would have become an ironworker.

Even Ilarion had followed in his father's footsteps.

He thought about it.

"Problem solved," he echoed.

Kassian fell silent for a few moments.

"...that's a good...point."

"It is a good point," agreed Ilarion, pleased with himself, preening his fingers over his soft robe.

"Furthermore- and I've had another brilliant idea, Irinarhov, so listen up- if you're bored with field duty as a worker ant, you could always serve as an instructor. Teach people how to better kill other people from around the block. Work with impressionable young minds, all that chush."

He reached for his cognac.

"Why stray from your comfort zone."

He laughed, softly, amused at himself.

"Or extend yourself beyond your...crosshairs."

"Right."

Kassian started to pour himself another drink, reconsidered, then reconsidered again. He settled for filling the glass halfway.

He wondered if Isaev was starting to get drunk.

"I could be an instructor," he started, trying out the sound of it. "I taught your brother. He always protests that he can't shoot well, but it's not that. It just doesn't...inspire him."

Instruction was more of a stretch than Isaev realized, he imagined. But at the same time, he didn't feel opposed, the way he would have a couple of months before.

"I just want to find a way to live well in Leningrad, doing something I'll enjoy. I have nothing left to achieve here. Nothing new to learn."

He fell into a thoughtful silence as he drank.

"All right. Da," he said, after a while. "If you could make that call, and see if they need an instructor. If not, or it turns out I don't like it, I can try something else."

"Fine," said Isaev, with a wave of his hand. "Consider it done."

It was really not a matter. Leningrad HQ ultimately supervised the workings of MVD spetsnaz, and Lasha had heavy influence within Leningrad HQ.

He snorted quietly.

"It seems that Andrei likes you a great deal," he said. "If he didn't, you know, Irinarhov, I'd extract my ounce of blood over that hit. You know that I would. Revenge is absolutely succulent cold, and I don't suffer insult lightly."

He paused, taking another sip. It was warm, and slightly numbing.

"As it stands, however, I am willing to let the issue sleep lightly under a bed of everlasting snow. And I am willing to let you exist without prejudice, as if we'd never crossed paths."

Ilarion's eyes narrowed vaguely as he regarded his drink.

"Consider it my housewarming gift."

Kassian's jaw tightened slightly.

He did not say anything for a moment, but instead raised his glass and finished off his drink.

"Spasiba," he said, then. "You're not the man I thought you were. You've been very generous. I don't hold a grudge for the past."

He paused, exhaling.

When he turned back to Isaev, his eyes were clear.

"Just so you know. I imagine we'll be seeing each other from time to time in Leningrad."

"I imagine we will," replied Lasha, noncommittally. "It's a small world in the Ministry, and it's impossible to avoid anyone for long."

He paused, darkly, setting down his glass, gently, but with a decided noise.

"Unless you take some extraordinary measures," he muttered, with absent venom.

Ilarion's fingers sought the arm of the chair once more, to toy along its length, easing his palm across it in an almost sensual gesture, designed to distract his mind.

His eyes were narrow and light, his smile slight and cruel.

"Oh, and Irinarhov- I am the man you thought I was."

He paused, delicately.

"But you will find that's not always a misfortune."

Kassian stared at him for a couple of seconds.

"...I'll keep that in mind."

The words had a ring of promise to them.

He supposed it was all a matter of perspective, and one very particular perspective, at that. Ilarion's. To the family of a political criminal, he was callous, even cruel. To the comrade of his beloved brother, he was generous.

It struck Kassian that Ilarion's capacity for generosity and cruelty were nearly equal in intensity, just opposed.

It was not a contradiction in the nature of the man, Kassian thought. It was more that Lasha Isaev had little regard for most. Those that he loved or hated were rare, and therefore important.

Kassian rose.

"I'll let you get back to your evening."

He regarded Ilarion for a few seconds, then he stepped closer, and held out his hand, offering it to him to shake.

"Major. Thanks again. Good night."

Lasha looked down at Irinarhov's hand. He'd removed his gloves upon sitting down, and now he held them in his his other hand.

The one he offered was well-made, capable and sure. He was used to using his hands, the sniper.

"Davai," drawled Ilarion, after a moment.

He reached out and clasped it in his own, holding it, motionless and firm. Irinarhov had the hand of a working man; Ilarion did not. It made for an interesting sensory contradiction.

"Be well."

Taras had waited as long as he could.

It wouldn't do, he'd decided, to let that khokol think he could come and go and talk to Lasha as long as he pleased, with no one checking up on him. That sent the wrong message.

He had been driven fairly to distraction in the intervening time. He and Lasha had something unfinished to finish, as far as he was concerned.

Taras had managed to resist finishing it himself.

He found his way back to Lasha's door, and paused outside of it before entering. He heard voices. Lasha's particular timbre made him shudder lightly, in anticipation.

Taras opened the door, then stopped abruptly in the doorway, eyes slowly widening.

There was Lasha, sitting in his chair, and the khokol, standing over him, much in the way that Taras had been before the khokol had interrupted them. Irinarhov's hand grasped Lasha's, as if he were pulling himself closer.

Instinct flared behind Taras' mismatched eyes.

"Lasha."

Taras stepped into the room, shutting the door behind him, locking it with a heavy click.

"Everything...okei here?"

His gaze shifted to Irinarhov.

"This khokol behaving?"

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