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 held Isaev's gaze for a long moment.

The major's eyes were keen and fixed on him, searching. Questioning. It was not the impassive look of men at a troika, but rather something more intense. Kassian supposed it stood to reason that Ilarion would want to understand the man who was his brother's close comrade, but it seemed to him perhaps more personal than that, like it mattered for Ilarion himself.

"I can't," Kassian said, quietly.

He shifted the rifle off his shoulder and leaned against the wall, wishing vaguely for another drink.

"I feel like I've submitted myself to fate all my life. I stayed where I was until something happened. I let it take me to the war, to Spetsnaz, to keep me where I was without trying to change things. I was like a leaf on the breeze. I didn't care where I went. I just...went."

Oleksei was looking at him, almost curiously, with a frown that thickened his low brow. But there was not confusion in his eyes, but rather a keen focus, different than Ilarion's. It did not seem personal for Oleksei. But he was paying very close attention in a way Kassian had assumed a man like him would probably not. There was no reason to understand a man if you could make him do what you wanted - but it did not seem that way with Oleksei.

Ilarion had called them good company.

He turned back to Ilarion, feeling Oleksei's gaze remain.

"And now I can't. I can't anymore. I won't let fate decide for me anymore. I need to decide for myself."

Kassian exhaled, slowly, and pushed a hand through his hair.

"And that's why I came to you, Major."

Ilarion studied him for a moment.

"Makes sense," he pronounced, finally.

His eyes were cool, appraising.

The sniper's reply had been rather more raw and actual than Lasha had expected; honestly, he'd assumed he would get the kind of rote affirmations Irinarhov seemed largely prone to, vaguely reassuring but carefully noncommittal, as if he were reluctant to actually invest in the world.

It followed that such a man would have unconsciously abdicated his free will, either by simply not thinking about it, or by deliberately avoiding the pursuit of anything concrete.

This encounter, however, had been different. Irinarhov's whole bearing seemed to carry a fierce and somewhat wrenching determination.

"Some men who have been passive need to thwart the fate that has ruled them. Other men who have held their reality in a stranglehold need to surrender to its unfurling. It follows."

Taras lay somewhere in the middle, he thought, and probably would not have much of an opinion, or see much validity in discussions of fate and the examined life. Taras was a man of pure and particular action, and liked it that way.

Taras made a low noise, in agreement.

"Da. You do what you need to do to get what you want, Irinarhov, whatever that is."

He looked at the khokol, addressed him, but he was speaking to Lasha too. He had the feeling Lasha would know it anyway, but there was no need for the khokol to hear the things that Taras would otherwise say privately. Part of Taras' job was to make sure that no one saw Ilarion in any moment they might construe as weakness.

Some would say Lasha's devotion to Liadov was a weakness.

Taras was on the fence on that one, but it also didn't matter, one way or the other.

He shrugged his bare, tattooed shoulders.

"If you're worthy, you'll get it. Nothing comes easy."

His lip curled in sudden amusement.

"But you got this far, da? That counts for something. Keep going, khokol."

Taras reached out, and punched in the shoulder lightly He found that Irinarhov had a bit of solid muscle in his arm, moreso than he'd guessed for a man of his size and build.

Irinarhov frowned at him.

Taras glanced at Ilarion, who had regained his composure. It had been a momentary ripple, but still. Taras hadn't wanted Irinarhov to get the wrong idea.

"Right, Lasha?"

Ilarion rolled his eyes.

"Good christ you're creepy when you try to be affable, Oleksei."

It almost didn't fit him, like his too-small undershirt that bulged with broad, warm muscle.

"Truculence is your natural state and suits your far better."

It wasn't entirely true. There were moments when Taras fumbled with an awkward gentleness that emerged unexpectedly, and Ilarion found that rather charming.

Then there were moments his whole mien shifted inexplicably, along with his opinion.

Half an hour ago, Oleksei had been planning to either throw Irinarhov into a plate glass window or rape him; now he was grinning and chin-chucking like an old friend.

Lasha shook his head.

Oleksei was an enigma.

He waved his hand vaguely.

"But all right. Fine. Yes. Chin up, sniper, and all that chush."

Fine. Yes. Right.

"Not as if you have any worries. You're under my umbrella now."

Kassian nodded, slowly.

He waited a few seconds before subtly moving away from Oleksei. Out of range.

"Da," he said. "I appreciate that."

The truth was that his remaining worries were over things that being under Isaev's umbrella would not really help with. Those things were entirely up to him. But one of the most important issues for a man of his means was taken of, and for that, he was grateful.

"And I'll acquit myself well in Leningrad. It's a job I can do. No one will ever question you for calling it in on my behalf."

Isaev didn't actually seemed worried about it. Like he had said, Kassian would either succeed, or his failure could be neatly swept under the thick Ministry rug with all the other secrets and indiscretions.

Even so, Kassian supposed that Isaev didn't relish the idea of wasting his efforts.

He hesitated, then looked over at Ilarion.

"Has Andrei...said anything to you about what he wants to do when he gets home?"

"Andrei?"

Ilarion paused, faintly incredulous for a moment, then a wintry storm passed over his features.

"So long as he stays well clear of the Ministry, he can do as he likes."

Lasha cast a veiled glance at his own uniform lying over the back of the chair, immaculate and pressed.

"I determined long ago that this would never be his legacy to bear."

His fingers covered the MVD ring on his finger; half in reverence, half in something like diffidence.

"This is no business I for want my brother."

His face softened, slightly.

"University. Now that would be a place for Andrusha."

"University..." Kassian repeated, momentarily thrown off.

He had to pause to think about it. He had limited knowledge of what University was like, though he understood the concept well enough. Kassian tried to picture Andrei there, and he could see it, he thought, at least in terms of the social aspect, Andrei interacting with his peers. That was not unlike his camaraderie with the other Ocelots.

"I could...see that," he said, slowly.

It was the other aspect of schooling he had more trouble picturing, the hours of study and coursework he assumed went along with it. It was not that Andrei couldn't apply himself in that manner. It was more that Andrei was too smart, too hands-on, and Kassian suspected he would get bored if he found the method of learning too dry.

And there was also the other factor, if Andrei would balk at doing such a thing, just because his brother wanted it.

Kassian rubbed his fingers along his jawline.

"What do you think he would study?"

Medicine was the first thing that came to his mind, if only for Andrei's already extensive knowledge of human physiology.

Ilarion shrugged.

"I don't know. Literature, science, law, history, mathematics. Engineering. Anything."

His brow drew low.

"I don't care, as long as its an intellectual pursuit, and a noble one. He's young; scarcely even a man, Andrei Aleksandrovich. I want to see him fulfill his real potential in life, and not waste his mind in the trades."

Such a thought was actually unthinkable.

"I have no idea what he does here, but it cannot possibly be worthy of him."

"He kills people," Kassian said, after a moment. "With his bare hands."

Oleksei perked up.

"He has a skill that very few people have. I would say he might be the only one in all of Spetsnaz who can. Surely he's one of a very small handful who uses the same technique in all the world."

Kassian shrugged.

"So you can at least take comfort in the fact that Andrei's among the most elite of an already-elite group."

He tried to picture Andrei working at a noble intellectual pursuit. Philosopher. Mathematician. Chemist. It was a little difficult.

Kassian frowned, quizzically.

"What happened when he decided to go into Spetsnaz in the first place? Did you fight?"

"Surely he rarely kills anyone around here."

Ilarion said it dismissively.

"So while it may be a considerable talent, it's of no real use."

While he said it, he was aware that a part of him did like the idea of his brother killing men with his bare hands. Really liked it.

He shifted slightly to accommodate himself.

Lasha cleared his throat lightly.

"As for GRU Spetsnaz, I didn't adore the idea, it's true. Why not MVD Spetsnaz, if one must play soldier? Still, I could hardly argue with the assignment. And I've never been able to deny him anything. Not really."

He paused, rhapsodic.

"In any case, I knew he was slumming at worst. Andrei is high spirited; he likes to taste everything, touch everything. It was a fancy for him. But he can't escape who he is. And now, his blood calls him home."

"I know."

Kassian glanced down, brushing off the front of his uniform, absently.

Part of him still wondered if he was a passing fancy as well, something that Andrei tasted and touched and slummed with until his interest waned. But at the same time, the thought seemed at odds with all he had known and experienced during his time in Andrei's company.

"I'm sure he'll be glad to be home," he said, thoughtfully. "I imagine it'll take him a while to decide what he wants to do."

Andrei had no need to hit the ground running, once in Leningrad. He already had a home waiting for him. A job - a profession, or occupation - could come later, at his leisure. It was a different sort of mindset than the one Kassian knew.

The more they talked about it, the more real it became to him, the idea of Andrei out of the military in Leningrad. Wearing civilian clothing. Socializing with friends.

"What about...boxing?" he asked, frowning. "I know he loves it, but he said he was banned after that incident with the Frenchman."

Kassian paused for a second, realizing he needed to clarify what he'd said, given who he was talking to.

Andrei had told him the whole story. In detail.

"Not for an occupation. But I have the feeling he'd like to fight again, in some capacity."

Lasha smiled, indulgent.

"He wasn't banned permanently."

The incident with Tourangeau had inspired a lot of men. The crowd had been packed with MENTS and criminals, the atmosphere heavy with testosterone and rage and camaraderie, the heart punch had been unprecedented, and the whole event had been a spectacle from start to finish.

"A decent period of professional probation was all that was advised. If anything, Andrei banned himself after what happened with Tourangeau."

Ilarion shrugged.

"The officials were stunned, but understanding. Things happen, even in exhibition fights. Still, it would have been hard to find someone who wanted to get in the ring with him after that little display. At least...in an official capacity. Of course, I certainly don't want him to be a professional boxer, so it matters little."

His fingertips touched and retreated several times as he spoke, contemplative.

"As it turns out, we in the bureaus have our own little boxing circuit in Leningrad, under the official radar."

A smile spread across his wintry features.

"Very much underground, of course."

It had evolved in the time that Andrei was away, and now boasted attendance and participation from all the major bureaus- KGB, MVD, GRU- as well as the regular police, the firemen and assorted well-placed criminals.

"I would like nothing better than to see him fight again."

"I'd be interested, myself," Kassian said.

Oleksei was nodding. "Da, me too."

He looked happy about it.

Kassian remembered Andrei's recounting of that fight, simultaneously devastating and yet somehow erotic. He'd gotten the feeling that Andrei missed boxing at the same time the incident weighed on him heavily.

He also remembered what Andrei had said about the things Lasha had whispered into his brother's ear, how actively engaged he had been in the fight. He also looked happy about the prospect.

"I'm guessing a lot of people would be interested in his return. That's the sort of thing that becomes legendary after a few years."

If he remembered right, it had been six years ago. Andrei had been very young. Eighteen. Kassian imagined that in the intervening time, he had filled out with muscle and honed his skill to become the man that Kassian knew.

"Do you think you'd be able to find someone to fight him now, given what happened?"

He looked at Oleksei glancingly, careful to avoid making direct eye contact.

"Or do you already have someone in mind?"

Ilarion shot him a quizzical look and made a vague gesture.

"How could I, when I've only just considered it? Why, khokol? You want to take a swing at him?"

Belatedly, he noted Irinarhov's gaze straying toward Oleksei.

He barked out a laugh.

"Oh, well thought, Irinarhov. Taras loves a good fight, don't you, Taras?"

"Oh, da, I do, but..." Taras trailed off, frowning slowly.

He hesitated. He couldn't let Lasha or Irinarhov think he was a sissy, or afraid to fight Andrusha. But at the same time, he found it difficult to explain why he didn't want to fight.

Taras' broad hand formed into a fist, and he shook it with absent menace.

"I love the fights, da. One of my favorite things to go see. You should have seen Andrusha fight the Frenchman, Irinarhov. It was great."

Taras grunted, dismissively.

"I don't want to box, though. I'd rather watch."

Lasha was frankly surprised.

"Really?" he said, leaning back and orienting his body toward Oleksei to better regard him.

His brow crinkled slightly, with polite incredulity.

"But you engage in unofficial, unilateral boxing all the time in the field. It's one of your favorite things to do, Tarashik. Hit things."

Taras nodded, slowly, frowning.

"Da, I like that. But..."

He glanced down at his fist. His knuckles were wide and nicked with a few light scars.

He had hit many things in his lifetime.

Taras shrugged.

"I guess I don't want to do it unless it's for real."

That was the real reason, Taras thought. Every time he hit something, he did it with the knowledge that his own well-being - or Lasha's - was on the line. It meant something important. Survival.

"If I start doing that kind of thing for fun...I don't know, Lashka. I don't want to lose my edge."

Ilarion smiled, slowly.

"Did the fight with the Frenchman look like fun, Taras?"

His eyes were slightly narrowed, assessing, provocative.

"Just...fun?"

It hadn't been fun for Tourangeau, that much was for sure. Or perhaps it had been, and then the fun had abruptly ended.

He sighed, clasping his hands under his chin petulantly and pushing his lips into a sullen moue.

"No matter," he announced. "I'm sure Khartov will do it."

Lasha was not actually sure Khartov would. Khartov was crooked but Ilarion had never seen any evidence of his being stupid.

"Or maybe some muscle out of your father's stable. I'm sure he employs some pugilistic talent."

"Da, he does. Maybe they will."

Taras doubted it.

He folded his arms, and looked at Lasha for a long moment.

There were several men among Cheslav's boys who fought. None of them were of Andrusha's caliber. In Taras' opinion, neither was Khartov, though he usually did fairly well for himself.

Taras used to enjoy going to the fights, cheering his comrades on. They shared a rough camaraderie that was absent from his life now.

Those times were over. He was not one of his father's men anymore. He was a MENT. An Isaev. And he had left behind that criminal brotherhood and found a more intimate and refined friendship instead.

It was like having a fillet mignon after only knowing brisket.

Taras eyed Ilarion for a few moments.

He had the feeling Lasha wanted him to do it.

"I'm not sure I could control myself, anyway. When I get mad..."

He shook his head, dismissively.

"I just don't think it would be a good idea."

Ilarion raised his eyebrows in a negligent fashion.

"Whatever you say, Taras," he said, breezily. "You know best."

He turned his attention back to the sniper.

"There you have it, Irinarhov. Captain Oleksei is concerned he might injure my dear brother in a contest of these sorts. Perhaps that's a relief to you."

Ilarion vaguely wished there was more cognac, but in retrospect had probably imbibed more than his share.

"I, myself, would not worry overmuch."

He flashed a knifelike smile, swift as a silver-bottomed fish disappearing into the darkness of deep water.

"It's probably better that way," Kassian muttered.

He would not worry overmuch, either. But he had the feeling it would be a mistake to say that to Oleksei's face. If Oleksei had a strength advantage over Andrei - and Kassian was not even sure on that front - then it was negated by Andrei's training and fighting style.

Even so, it would probably be a better matchup than Tourangeau.

Andrei had explained the different types of boxers to Kassian. He imagined that Oleksei would be a brawler. No finesse or dexterity, but a punch that hit like a kettlebell across the jaw.

"Someone will want to," he said, glancing away from Oleksei deliberately. "Andrei's still undefeated. And he must be larger than life in those circles."

Kassian shook his head.

He turned his gaze to Ilarion.

"Andrei told me about that night. In detail. He remembers it quite vividly."

And now he could see it, Ilarion as the devil on Andrei's shoulder, whispering in his ear, his words laced with dark promise. Kassian would even wager that Lasha had been unsurprised by the result.

"You must have been pleased with the way it turned out."

Irinarhov was noncommittal as usual when it came to asserting any manner of concrete opinion.

Ilarion smirked, eyeing the sniper with a split-second of thinly veiled contempt.

In the next instant he was yawning, willfully dismissing the whole conversation from his mind, as if it had never happened.

"Yes, yes. Of course I was utterly thrilled. I love having a dead man on my hands."

He rolled his eyes.

"And a traumatized brother in my bed."

Kassian frowned.

"You couldn't have been all that surprised, even so. You knew that Tourangeau was outmatched. And you knew what Andrei was capable of."

He shook his head.

"In spite of those inconveniences, it worked out well for you. And now you have a brother who is respected and feared for his own merits and not just the Isaev name."

If word got out about Andrei being suspected of murder, it would be even moreso. But Kassian knew it would not. Between the Isaevs and Liadov himself, the whitewash would be thorough, especially if Ilarion intended Andrei to have this noble career of his.

He eyed Ilarion narrowly.

"Why is it exactly that you don't want Andrei in the Ministry? You don't think he can handle it?"

Ilarion leaned forward abruptly, his eyes blazing coldly like fire in opal.

"I think he doesn't have to handle it," he said. "Because I made sure of it."

He was galled by the Ukrainian's presumption, and had to remind himself that he had granted this man a place in the Ministry on his brother's behalf.

"Soon after Andrei was born, I already knew what my course of action would be. Masha's birth only reinforced my determination."

He felt his blood steel in his veins, the frost that settled on his skin. And ordinary man might crack from being frozen, but not a man who had made his peace with becoming ice.

"I threw myself upon the bonfire of my Father's legacy for a reason. I didn't swallow this bitter pill for nothing."

His voice became low and menacing.

"I didn't sacrifice my own life on the Ministry altar only to have my brother turn around and blithely decide he wants to swallow the same poison."

His eyes narrowed like chips of ice.

"With or without the urging of some khokol- some outsider who knows nothing of this family, and through his own experience, should know better about this work."

Kassian stared hard at Isaev, watching him, studying him.

Slowly, a few things fell into place. Before, he had only Andrei's perception of Lasha to go on. Now he saw Ilarion's view, not only of Andrei, but his own situation.

There was something to be admired about a man who not only did what he thought best, but also sacrificed himself for his brother, whether his brother thought it was best for him or not.

Kassian nodded tightly, after a moment.

"Andrei doesn't understand that," he said, finally. "He has no idea. And I don't suppose you need him to understand it, either, as long as he has the freedom you didn't."

He held up his hands, conciliatory.

"I'm not going to urge Andrei to do anything. In any case, he'll do what he wants, regardless of what I think."

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