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taras_olekseiTaras 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."
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Date: 2009-08-12 06:14 pm (UTC)He wasn't sure which thing to address first. It struck him that Lasha was probably trying to throw him off balance, in the way that Lasha did.
He lowered his gaze to take a sip of cognac.
"Don't want to get married," he said, finally. It was the thing he felt most definitively about. "Women are too much trouble. It's bad enough I have sisters."
His lip twisted.
Taras knew he would have said the same thing six months ago, and he would say it six months from now. He thought that some things had changed for him, but that, he knew, would not.
As far as Taras was concerned, it was more manly not to be married.
"And Anya...no. I don't want her. She disrespected you, Lasha. I can't act like that's okei with me. I'm on your side, not hers. And anyway, if I keep her, it sends the wrong message."
He shrugged dismissively, then resolved not to think of it anymore. It was what it was.
"If a man had hit you, I would have broken his fucking face," he added. "So she's lucky to get off with only being fired. Or if you want to keep her around because you think she knows too much, there's probably something else she can do. Maybe organize files in the basement."
He grabbed the cognac bottle and poured them both another hit. They were starting to make a good dent in it.
Taras fell silent for a while, considering the last. He could feel Lasha's gaze on him.
Ilarion was watching him with coolly appraising eyes, waiting for his response.
"We should have a good secretary," he said, slowly. "A polite one. Not one that's old or something. One that knows his place. And not some arrogant prick who thinks he's better than shit."
It would be something like having a bitch, he decided.
At least, borrowing a comrade's.
At first he had thought of Barshai that way, since Lasha obviously did. But Barshai had surprised Taras with the things he said, and now he was more like a friend.
He paused.
"One that doesn't complain," he added.