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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"Shh," said Ilarion, easing his hand further beneath Oleksei's athletic wear to cup his testes, and then, slowly, behind them, grazing the pads of his fingers through the furrow of his muscular ass and over the entrance to his body.

It felt different than the rest of Oleksei, a rare place of softness and vulnerability in a statue made of flesh-like granite.

"There's no need for you to justify any act or desire in this world, Taras."

He kissed Oleksei, mindfully, pouring his presence into the gesture, letting his tongue slip the boundaries of the Captain's pugnacious mouth, seeking to open it, penetrate and plunge himself deeply within.

Taras' brows drew inward heavily, his lips tensing then parting under the slowly increasing pressure of Lasha's tongue.

It had done something to him, to feel the brush of Lasha's fingers there, the touch that was so deliberate yet not invasive. The spike of sensation that followed felt so visceral, it sharpened his awareness of everything, especially that intimate place.

Taras thought it was not bad to be touched there by Lasha, and he left it at that.

Their tongues twined and thrust against each other slowly. Taras leaned into the kiss, drinking it all in, the kiss, the yield of Lasha's body under his, Lasha's particular musky scent and texture.

He stroked Lasha's cock firmly, letting his thumb trail along the underside.

After a few seconds, Taras pulled back slightly, and looked at Lasha.

"I know. It's different when you understand."

Taras shifted carefully to let his weight rest on his hip and side, and drew Lasha toward him so that they lay facing each other. Then he kissed him again, and let the pressure of his lips and tongue build slowly.

Lasha thought it was strange, interacting with Oleksei in this manner. Something he would not have anticipated from the thug, no matter how smooth his knuckles might have become.

It was as if Taras was reaching beyond himself. But why?

Ilarion had no explanation for what might have prompted this shift, this new tolerance of his own predilections.

Even Oleksei's mouth on his seemed different, as if he had come into his own somehow. There was no furtive hesitance or self-loathing in the way he sought Ilarion's tongue with his own.

Lasha almost thought he approved, though he wasn't exactly sure what he was approving of, or what he was looking at.

A new man? A different man? The same man, surrendering to the inevitable?

No matter, he thought. Merely a curio.

He did not ask.

Instead he shouldered out of his lush camel robe, letting it fall carelessly onto the bed behind and beneath him.

"Strip, Oleksei," he breathed against Taras' lips. "Show me the machine."

The jangle of the black utilitarian telephone on the nightstand was a sudden intercessor.

Taras tensed, nostrils flaring, his fingers digging lightly into Lasha's shoulders, as if he were trying to hold Ilarion in place.

He held still in the second it took him to place the sound, holding in a breath.

The ring came again, loud in their intimate space, the particular pitch of this telephone sounding foreign somehow.

It was not his telephone, he remembered. He was in Ilarion's room.

Taras' lip curled, fingers slowly loosening.

He met Lasha's eyes.

"You going to get that?" he rumbled, still close, Lasha's bare skin under his fingertips.

He could feel his heart pounding in the wake of the interruption, though it had not dissuaded his cock, still hard and pulsing against the front of his pants.

His eyes narrowed slightly.

"...or you want me to break it?"

Oleksei's heart was like a tympani. He could actually feel echoes of its hammering in his own flesh.

Taras did not like interruptions. Not in work, crime or...

Recreation, Ilarion allowed, after a beat.

He let his fingers play soothingly over the Captain's brawn, mindlessly contouring the muscle in his arm and shoulder.

Ilarion frowned.

Considering the time of night, it was likely something of some import.

He extricated himself from Oleksei just enough to reach the receiver as it rung again, putting it to his ear with an absent expression.

"Isaev," he said, in a clipped, polished tone.

"Isaev," declared his father's voice, not without a hint of icy humor. Unmistakable; the apple having not fallen far.

"Father," he returned, bizarrely aware of the monosyllabic nature of the exchange.

"The wash is on, Ilarion."

Lasha's eyes narrowed with sudden acuity.

"It's about time."

"I've spoken to Nikanor Grigoriivich."

Ilarion paused.

"I see," he said, at last.

"You both know the drill."

"Kanyeshna. Of course we do."

"Khorosho. I'm waiting here in Leningrad. Don't be long."

By the tone of the words, Ilarion took it to mean that Aleksandr missed his presence.

There was a pause. "Good night, Lasha."

The line clicked off.

Ilarion was quiet for a moment, mind working, toying absently with the receiver in his hand.

Then he replaced it in the cradle with a soft, almost inaudible noise.

Taras swallowed as Ilarion hung up the phone.

He had rested silently against Lasha throughout the conversation, not daring to move lest he make their clothes or the bedsheets rustle.

He'd averted his eyes, as if that gave Lasha more privacy, and had taken care to breathe softly, in through his nose, out through his mouth.

His heartbeat felt louder than his respiration.

They'd been laying so close, he heard the quality of the voice on the other end of the line, speaking in familiar, modulated tones.

He'd caught only a few familiar words. Ilarion and Leningrad and Lasha.

Father, Ilarion had said.

Aleksandr Isaev, Ministry Direktor.

He thought of the cold presence of Lasha's father, a man he had glimpsed through cracked doors and observed at distance. Aleksandr was much like his son, or maybe it was the other way around, though Taras knew enough to understand they were not the same. Lasha was of course younger, handsomer, hungrier and more vital.

Taras suspected he was smarter as well, but Aleksandr, more treacherous.

He had a sudden, horrible thought, that somehow Aleksandr had known what they were doing, and called at a strategic moment.

Taras had not forgotten about Lasha's propensity for bugging offices. Lasha had learned that from somewhere.

Slowly, he raised his eyes to Isaev's.

Taras' gaze was flickering and a little wild, mismatched eyes rimmed in white.

"What did he want?" he whispered.

Lasha smiled crookedly, eyes downcast as he ran a hand back through the soft resistance of his pale crop.

"It's your first whitewash, Taras. A momentous occasion."

He sighed, rolling his head from side to side slightly as if to dispel tension from his neck.

"Regarding Andrei. We've been given orders to slash and burn."

We, of course, referred to Liadov and himself, but ultimately Taras by extension.

"He's already spoken to Major Liadov."

After a moment it occurred to Ilarion to wonder if he should be affronted that Aleksandr had contacted Nikanor first.

"All traces of suspicion must be destroyed. He must be beyond exonerated; he must have never even been touched by this unpleasantness."

It was time to edit reality a little.

"Oh," Taras said.

He felt the tension in him ease somewhat, slowly, almost as if he were unwilling, though the explanation behind the call seemed perfectly reasonable.

Taras thought about it for a few seconds.

"Da. We can do that. We already have most of the paperwork gathered up in our office. It won't be hard to get rid of it."

His heartrate slowed, lulled against the rise and fall of Ilarion's slender chest.

He thought about the whitewash of his own records, which had probably been much more difficult. Numerous offenses, scattered incidents, the near-indelible stain of the death of the MENT. If it could be done for him, it could be done for Andrusha.

Tara found himself wondering for a second if Andrusha had actually done all those things that Anya had so calmly read to them from the report.

He knew it didn't matter, but he found himself wondering, just the same.

"What about the people?"

Taras shifted slightly, easing some of his bulk from directly pressing against Lasha's frame.

"I know how we handle the paperwork, but what about the people who know what happened? How far are we going to go to make sure they don't talk?"

Taras was amusing. He spoke as if this event was a novelty to all and sundry.

Ilarion raised an eyebrow.

"Of course it can be done," he said coolly. "We do it all the time."

He took hold of his robe, about to draw it back on, but hesitated.

"The way we handle the people, Taras, is the way we always handle the people. Impress upon them the consequences of disclosure. Not to mention the futility of disclosure."

It usually didn't even need to be said. Most people knew and accepted the reality of the drill.

The burning of records was really a formality, once the order had come down. No witness, no matter how reliable, had the clout to even make a dent in Aleksandr's steel machine.

Lasha's eyes narrowed, light and without mercy.

"And if we don't like the cut of their jib, we ice them anyway."

Taras nodded then.

"All right. I understand."

Parameters. It was important. Sometimes the fastest way to ensure someone didn't talk wasn't the best.

He exhaled slowly.

Taras glanced around them, his eyes traveling over shapes in the darkness, the outlines of furniture, the faint glow from the stove. It felt familiar and welcoming and he let his hand relax against Lasha's thigh.

A slight frown nicked his brow.

"Your father," he said, lowering his voice, so it only brushed the air between them. "You don't think he...had your suitcases bugged, or anything?"

"Oh, of course," said Lasha, straightfaced. "Yours as well, I'm sure."

He glanced at his nails.

"Probably Anya's, most of all."

He glanced up.

"Access, you know," he said, conversationally. "I'm sure she's harboring incredible amounts of surveillance, being an MVD tart and all. Christ, she's probably still carrying bugs from her tenure under Liadov."

Oleksei's face- stricken, breathless- was priceless.

Lasha was amused, but kept his face utterly impassive.

He couldn't believe Oleksei actually thought he wouldn't have Danya sweep all of their possessions. Danya had become quite the expert at ripping open linings and feeling along seams. He was thorough and efficacious.

Ilarion traded out between several luggage sets, rotating them in and out of debugging, using only the ones straight from the cleaners.

Taras stared at Ilarion in quiet horror, his eyes tracking back and forth across his face.

Lasha did not seem very concerned about the issue, which meant there had to be some sort of extenuating circumstances. An Isaev did not leave those things to chance. Taras forced himself to think past his personal mortification of imagining Aleksandr watching and listening to everything they did. Spying on his conversations with Barshai.

Those bugs did not have a long range. They would certainly not transmit all the way back to Leningrad, which meant whatever device that was doing the actual recording had to also be located in their luggage. Either that, or Anya was a spy, an idea that Taras weighed for a few moments, then dismissed. He knew Ilarion would not have allowed it.

Tapes only lasted a certain amount of time before they were used up. Taras remembered erasing the recordings of Lasha and Barshai, down in the Ministry surveillance room in the basement of Leningrad HQ.

The more Taras thought about it, the more improbable the whole thing seemed.

"Aleksandr doesn't know anything," he muttered, finally. "It was just a coincidence he called right then."

Taras eyed Lasha for a few moments, then eased away slightly, staring at Lasha with narrowed eyes.

He imagined Lasha probably thought it was funny.

Taras grabbed the bottom of his tank and pulled it over his head in a single motion, exposing his bare chest and tattoos.

"...right when I was going to do that."

"Oh yes," murmured Lasha, rising up onto his elbow. "Do that, Taras."

He let his eyes drink in Oleksei's coarse, broad physique, the scrawling riots of tattoos.

Ilarion smiled, very slowly.

"Beautiful, Taras. Really. You're a beautiful machine."

His voice carried an appreciative note beyond its usual cool fluidity.

"Perhaps I should polish you."

He reached out with a idle hand, running his fingertips and palm speculatively along the hard, pronounced curve of Oleksei's pectoralis.

"Warm, aren't you. Not like a machine at all."

Taras exhaled, leaning forward again, into Lasha's touch, feeling the warmth of his hand move against Taras' skin, almost as if sculpting him, like an artist.

He knew Lasha's heart beat hungrily in his chest, that he craved sensation.

That was why he touched everything, stroked it and learned its shape and texture. With most things, that was enough, just to know them. But there were some things Lasha ended up keeping.

His gaze dropped to the jet-dark lines inked across Ilarion's chest, just under the graceful curves of his collarbone, to the part of himself that he had given Ilarion.

Taras reached out to brush his thumb across those lines, to touch Lasha's skin in turn.

"You're not cold. I can feel how warm you are, Lasha."

He let his broad hand stroke upward, to Isaev's throat.

"I'll make you warmer."

"That's right," urged Lasha, through scarcely parted lips. His eyes stayed locked on Oleksei's, light and clear as ice. "That's your right, Taras."

Oleksei's hand on his neck was weighted and encompassing. His adam's apple fit against the cove of the Captain's palm.

"Take it," he whispered, narrowing his eyes. "Take me."

His cock was hard as iron against the fine, thin silk of his black pajamas.

"I want you to do it again."

"I want to," Taras whispered.

He stroked the elegant lines of Lasha's throat carefully, brushing them with the pad of his thumb.

"I want to be inside you again."

The first time, the only time, Taras had been hesitant, though not for lack of want. The negotiation of terms had been uncomfortable in places, antagonistic in spots, alternating with undeniable hunger. And Taras had been conflicted.

He felt little conflict now, at least, not about having this.

Taras let his hand drop away. He reached for Lasha's pants and drew them off, sliding them down his slender hips, exposing the erect arch of his cock, curving and graceful against the smooth lines of his body.

He sat back on his haunches to look at Lasha, taking in the whole of him, like art.

Taras' eyes lowered, going half-lidded.

"Da. That's how I like to look at you."

"You'll do more than look, Taras."

Ilarion regarded Oleksei in turn, tilting his head. He liked the visual of the Captain's powerful, untamed body resting back on his knees like an idle tiger, considering him.

His voice dropped to a lower register, cool and demanding.

"I want you to inhabit me."

His eyes narrowed as he thought about the ways he liked to be taken; possibilities bloomed lush and hedonistic before the eye of his mind.

Taras, of course, had triggers. Willful denials that sprung from the North. He had indicated a desire to avoid certain configurations.

"Fill me with your flesh."

Ilarion made a move to grasp Oleksei and guide him forward, when the phone rang again.

He frowned.

That made twice in one night he'd been called after hours.

"Izvinitchye," he murmured, distracted.

He stared at the phone for a moment. He let it ring again, in case it had been a clerical error.

It was unlike Aleksandr to call twice, because it was unlike Aleksandr to require a second call, at least as far as business was concerned. He generally delivered information in the most concise possible manner.

When it rang a third time he reached for the receiver and picked it up.

"Isaev," he said, with suspicious recalcitrance.

"Hello, Lasha." A pause, as Ilarion realized who he was speaking to. "...Did I wake you?"

"No," Ilarion said, at once, sitting bolt upright, checking himself at the halfway mark and settling slowly back into a more leisurely posture. "No, not at all."

Nika exhaled, softly.

"Khorosho."

There was a gravid silence on the line between them. Ilarion was aware of his hand trembling, even as the rest of his body was perfectly still. He crushed it against the bed.

"Is everything all right?" he said, forcing control, breaking the stillness of deep water once more.

"No," Liadov said, with unvarnished honesty and a slight, raw hint of laughter. "No, Lasha, everything is not all right, but we do what we can, davai?"

"You spoke to Aleksandr."

"Yes, I spoke to him." Pause. "At length, as usual."

He could hear the wry humor in Liadov's voice and he smiled too, faint and crisp, invisible through the telephone line.

"Of course," he murmured.

He lay back, slowly, eyes seeking Oleksei once more, finding him silent, staring hard, his mismatched eyes unfathomable.

Taras exhaled softly, eyes never leaving Lasha.

He had been startled by Isaev's initial reaction, thinking something was wrong. Taras thought there were few things that caused Lasha to break composure. Something bad happening to someone he loved was the first thing that came to mind, but Taras had realized quickly it was not that.

It was not business, either. Not exactly.

The smallest of smiles etched delicately around Ilarion's mouth, an expression Taras rarely saw.

Taras felt something compress in his chest, an ache that had once been nameless.

Liadov.

His lips formed the name silently, without malice.

Taras wondered if Lasha would want him to leave, so he could have privacy. But Lasha gave no sign of that, and instead was holding his eyes even as Nika murmured in his ear.

He was caught by the strange in-betweenness of it, knowing secrets about both men that he could never reveal to either. He was far more intimate with both of them than Lasha or Nika knew.

Lasha reclined on the bed, nude, seemingly at ease with both of them.

After a long pause, Taras lay down as well, easing quietly to his back. He studied Lasha for a few moments more, then reached toward him, slipping his arm over Lasha's shoulders, tugging at him gently, drawing him against his broad chest.

Liadov laughed softly and then fell quiet for a spell.

"He sounds like you," he said, eventually. "Aleksandr. Your vocal inflections, your timbre."

Ilarion exhaled, soundless.

"Does he," he said, with difficulty.

"Da," responded Liadov.

The word fluttered down like ash and settled on the surface of his soul.

Oleksei shifted in silence, as Ilarion's eyes followed him with absent study.

He was faintly surprised when he felt Taras reach for him with his brutish arms, and felt the Captain pull him close.

Ilarion leaned back into his encompassing embrace, like a man reclining in the arms of a living throne. Oleksei was warm and vibrant, heartbeat thudding roughly against Ilarion's bare back.

"Then you must despise the sound of it," Lasha murmured, words like the dry brush of winter.

"On the contrary," replied Nika.

Ilarion closed his eyes, breath hissing inward through his teeth.

"Don't toy with me, Liadov."

He knew he had no karmic right to demand any such courtesy.

Behind him, Taras was brute and unyielding muscle, but there was nothing tense or alarmed in his physicality; in fact, he was supple; almost sensual.

Dimly, he assumed the change must have been effected by the recent reassurance that Aleksandr could not possibly be privy to their assignation.

A frown tugged at Taras' low brow.

Lasha had tensed in his arms, seemingly in response to something Liadov had said.

Taras slipped his arm more closely around Lasha's stomach, and held him comfortably there.

It was something of a strange conversation to hear one-sided, the other half one that Taras could not guess at. He lay close enough to pick up the low, murmured tones of Liadov's rich voice from the telephone receiver, but could catch none of the words.

He wondered what Liadov had said, who they were talking about.

Lasha had said he. Taras wondered if it were him. If it was an argument or an accusation, or just something Ilarion had taken offense at.

He seemed somewhat agitated, the lines of his back taut against Taras' stomach.

Taras reached up and rubbed his palm over the lean contours of Lasha's chest, making a circular pattern, slow and soothing.

"Ilarion Aleksandrovich-" Liadov's voice was grave, and melancholy. "I would never."

Lasha frowned. Nika sounded sad. Russian sad. And perhaps a little-

"Are you drunk, Liadov?" he asked, before he could stop himself.

"I would say that I am drunk," agreed Liadov, philosophically.

Ilarion's voice dropped into his chest, and he could not suppress the possessive note that entered it.

"You're alone?"

"As alone as you are."

Lasha flinched slightly.

"You don't know how alone I am."

Liadov gave a weary laugh, bloodless and colorless.

"Believe me, Lasha, I do."

"How can you say you never toyed with me? Just this morning-" began Lasha, demanding, but he was gently pre-empted.

"No. I didn't call to turn the knife, Ilarion. I merely called to tell you that I'm ready to do my share of the wash, as I always have, and always will. And I called to tell you what you already know."

Lasha fell silent, feeling a stitching pain.

"...I'll love you from the cradle to the grave, Ilarion Aleksandrovich."

A moment later he was holding a dead line, and his ear was filled with the white noise after the click that predominated the airwaves in Tselinoyarsk.

Taras drew in a sharp breath, fingers tightening on Lasha's chest, digging into his skin.

Emotion surged inside him. Taras could feel his heart thudding slowly.

You don't know how alone I am, Lasha had said, with a note of bitterness, not irony.

Taras had caught more Liadov's end of the conversation after he'd pressed closer, his face resting against the crook of Lasha's neck. It had clearly been Nika's laugh, quiet, and bitter as well.

He leaned in, and kissed the back of Lasha's head, his affection rough and searing.

"Lasha," he rumbled, thickly, when he was sure that Liadov had hung up.

He slid his hand down to Ilarion's stomach, holding him closer, aware he was harder than ever now, cock thick and arched aggressively against Lasha's ass.

"...I'm here."

Ilarion touched his face and felt water.

He couldn't hold it in his mind, he couldn't bear it.

His body took the brunt of his emotion instead.

Visceral reaction shot through him, burning lust and catharsis and anguish and love.

He stared ahead, eyes narrowed, body taut with unexpressed need.

"Taras," he whispered thickly, "love me."

Lasha shuddered and his head fell back, over Oleksei's thick shoulder.

"If you know how."

Taras clutched Lasha to him, hands tightening on his chest.

"Da," he whispered, into Lasha's smooth hair. He pressed his face against the side of Lasha's neck, soft words humming against Lasha's skin. "Da."

He could feel the ripple of emotion course through Lasha's body, the tightness in his shoulders. That was pain, and in spite of what Ilarion had said to the contrary, it always came with love, at least when it was about Nika.

Taras swallowed, chest aching. He really didn't know how to love anyone, but if he did, it would be Lasha.

He shuddered, kissing Lasha's neck, open-mouthed, tasting his skin, lingering at his shoulder. His hands stroked down, across Lasha's chest and stomach.

Taras took Lasha's cock in his fist, and gave it a firm stroke.

This was what Taras knew best, and one of the nicest things he knew how to do for someone.

"Da," he murmured, again. "I'll love you good, Lashka."

"Forget that, comrade," breathed Lasha, setting his hand on Oleksei's. "The time for that is over."

He closed his eyes for a moment. Taras was an enigma, but he was trying. Trying to be responsive by trying to be gentle. And in the course of that, he was moving backward, instead of forward. Ilarion wasn't sure why.

All he knew was that he'd been at the verge of getting fucked before the phone rang, and now they were back at their initial foreplay, detached and unilateral and maddening.

Ilarion thought he understood, even as his heart had hammered and the emptiness inside him had cried out to be filled-Oleksei didn't understand sexual intimation without coarse, rough words, he didn't follow hints or euphemistic expressions of need. Like the word love, they weren't in his lexicon.

He needed to be told, in concrete terms, what to do.

Lasha understood, even as his body shuddered quietly, aching for Oleksei's intrusion. The raw emotional desire that had fleetingly overtaken him had faded, now, leaving him in quietly polished control once more.

He exhaled, then opened his eyes.

"Captain," he said, softly, trying to be as genteel as possible, and preserve the original sentiment despite the vulgar imperative. "If you would be so kind as to fuck me."

As if he were asking Oleksei to pass a file, or summon their tea, or hand him his jacket.

"That...would please me a great deal."

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