The knock at the door was familiar enough that he knew who it was even before Oleksei identified himself.
Oleksei. That was good. He craved distraction.
Ilarion glanced up from the novel he'd been trying to read. He hadn't been able to focus for long, and the pages seemed lithe and alive with meaningless print. It was too quiet at night in Tselinoyarsk, muffled in snow and mountains.
He didn't necessarily miss the sounds of passing cars on the street far below his apartment in Leningrad. He didn't necessarily miss ambient noise.
What he found he rather missed was radio, which there was no way to receive in this godforsaken end place.
It was too quiet and his mind was too loud.
Ilarion set down the book and rose to his full height. He was wearing black silk pajama bottoms beneath a heavy, luxurious camel-colored cashmere robe.
Somehow Tselinoyarsk had felt colder this evening, as well.
He reached the door and slid open the chain lock and deadbolt, opening the door without the formality of his Tokarev.
Taras stood in the hall, bottle in hand, dressed down for the evening, looking intent but not particularly driven or purposeful.
His massive form was framed by the door. His mismatched eyes gazed at Ilarion, inscrutable and penetrating.
Lasha studied him only for a transient moment.
"Good evening, Oleksei," he said, his voice modulated and rich like cream. "Do come in."
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timeasmymeasure
no subject
Date: 2009-08-06 12:28 am (UTC)Oleksei. That was good. He craved distraction.
Ilarion glanced up from the novel he'd been trying to read. He hadn't been able to focus for long, and the pages seemed lithe and alive with meaningless print. It was too quiet at night in Tselinoyarsk, muffled in snow and mountains.
He didn't necessarily miss the sounds of passing cars on the street far below his apartment in Leningrad. He didn't necessarily miss ambient noise.
What he found he rather missed was radio, which there was no way to receive in this godforsaken end place.
It was too quiet and his mind was too loud.
Ilarion set down the book and rose to his full height. He was wearing black silk pajama bottoms beneath a heavy, luxurious camel-colored cashmere robe.
Somehow Tselinoyarsk had felt colder this evening, as well.
He reached the door and slid open the chain lock and deadbolt, opening the door without the formality of his Tokarev.
Taras stood in the hall, bottle in hand, dressed down for the evening, looking intent but not particularly driven or purposeful.
His massive form was framed by the door. His mismatched eyes gazed at Ilarion, inscrutable and penetrating.
Lasha studied him only for a transient moment.
"Good evening, Oleksei," he said, his voice modulated and rich like cream. "Do come in."