taras_oleksei (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
taras_oleksei) wrote2009-08-05 02:51 pm
taras_oleksei) wrote2009-08-05 02:51 pm
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."
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."
no subject
He did not know what he'd expected, exactly - something between Oleksei's outright hostility and Andrei's coolly detached dismissal. Or maybe the contemptuous, leering sneer of Ilarion in his youth.
But there was something about the simple invitation instead that struck him raw. Kassian knew it was not benevolence that motivated Ilarion Isaev, but right then, it didn't matter.
"Da," he said, quietly. His voice sounded a little rough, like he'd been drinking.
He cleared his throat.
"I'd appreciate that, Major."
Belatedly, he glanced down, tugging at his uniform, making the effort to straighten his jacket lapels and his twisted scarf, though it was mostly ineffectual.
He ran his hand through his hair again, pushing it back and off his brow.
Kassian stepped closer to Ilarion's chair. Oleksei did not follow him this time, but instead lurked menacingly like an overgrown Siberian tiger at the perimeter of a remote village.
He glanced at Oleksei, who merely stared back.
It seemed polite to disarm. Kassian looked away and slipped his rifle off his shoulder, leaning it carefully against the credenza.
There were two glasses on the endtable next to a nearly-empty bottle. He guessed he had interrupted Isaev and Oleksei's nightcap.
Ilarion, at least, did not seem particularly perturbed about it. His expression was mild and posture relaxed. He exuded unthinking confidence.
Kassian looked at him, and wondered if he was seeing what Andrei would be like, in eight years or so.
"Thanks for seeing me," he added.