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Fever Dream
May. 25th, 2008 10:23 pmTaras dreamed about the Zone.
He did that sometimes, in spite of the fact that he was further from it now than he'd ever been. Dreams were one place where even the long arm of the Ministry didn't reach.
His dreams about the Zone were usually short and to the point, about either fucking or fighting, sometimes both, at the same time.
This one was different, more detailed, and yet wholly surreal.
In the dream, he'd been sent up north again for some reason, and not even his clean record and rank and all the power of the Isaevs had stopped it. But Magadan was somehow more like the MVD Winter Ball, and everyone there was dressed as either an inmate or a guard.
Taras was wearing an inmate costume, complete with a scowling mask and clothes dyed to appear grimy. He wandered the halls, which were decorated like bare concrete walls and barbed wire huddled below a stark and distant sun.
It seemed like everyone was having a good time with the whole thing, guards mixing with inmates, inmates talking and laughing and drinking. Instead of labor camp, the inmates had to cart in trays of hors d'oeuvres, though they ended up stealing more than they served.
Taras had managed to sneak away so he could look for Isaev, but he hadn't been able to find him. He kept looking, and after a while he came upon two guards arguing in a hallway, and realized they were Isaev and Liadov.
As he listened to them argue, Taras decided to do it right this time, to kill Liadov before the guy saw it coming. But before he could make his move, Liadov suddenly pushed Isaev back, and then they started fucking, Magadan-style, up against the wall, hot and hungry and violent.
Taras woke then, pulse racing, erection pressed against his thigh, feeling vaguely unsettled and disoriented.
It was dark, but the bed was soft, and after a few seconds, Taras heard breathing.
He relaxed automatically without knowing why, but then remembered that he was at Isaev's, in his giant bed, and they had celebrated Anya's birthday with a few fairly depraved acts.
Slowly, he became aware of something else, a solid weight under his arm, a warmth against his chest and leg.
Taras realized at some point during the night, he must have rolled on his side, closer to Isaev, and draped an arm possessively over his hip.
But Isaev must have moved closer as well, undoubtedly seeking heat, maybe thinking he was Anya. Ilarion's leg was thrown over his, and his arm was tucked against Taras' chest.
Their heads were close. Isaev's breathing was steady, near as Taras could tell, but it was Taras' lungs that rattled.
He went still, wondering if he should pull away before Isaev woke up, but then again, that would probably wake him immediately.
Ilarion's hip felt smooth and warm.
Taras frowned.
He did that sometimes, in spite of the fact that he was further from it now than he'd ever been. Dreams were one place where even the long arm of the Ministry didn't reach.
His dreams about the Zone were usually short and to the point, about either fucking or fighting, sometimes both, at the same time.
This one was different, more detailed, and yet wholly surreal.
In the dream, he'd been sent up north again for some reason, and not even his clean record and rank and all the power of the Isaevs had stopped it. But Magadan was somehow more like the MVD Winter Ball, and everyone there was dressed as either an inmate or a guard.
Taras was wearing an inmate costume, complete with a scowling mask and clothes dyed to appear grimy. He wandered the halls, which were decorated like bare concrete walls and barbed wire huddled below a stark and distant sun.
It seemed like everyone was having a good time with the whole thing, guards mixing with inmates, inmates talking and laughing and drinking. Instead of labor camp, the inmates had to cart in trays of hors d'oeuvres, though they ended up stealing more than they served.
Taras had managed to sneak away so he could look for Isaev, but he hadn't been able to find him. He kept looking, and after a while he came upon two guards arguing in a hallway, and realized they were Isaev and Liadov.
As he listened to them argue, Taras decided to do it right this time, to kill Liadov before the guy saw it coming. But before he could make his move, Liadov suddenly pushed Isaev back, and then they started fucking, Magadan-style, up against the wall, hot and hungry and violent.
Taras woke then, pulse racing, erection pressed against his thigh, feeling vaguely unsettled and disoriented.
It was dark, but the bed was soft, and after a few seconds, Taras heard breathing.
He relaxed automatically without knowing why, but then remembered that he was at Isaev's, in his giant bed, and they had celebrated Anya's birthday with a few fairly depraved acts.
Slowly, he became aware of something else, a solid weight under his arm, a warmth against his chest and leg.
Taras realized at some point during the night, he must have rolled on his side, closer to Isaev, and draped an arm possessively over his hip.
But Isaev must have moved closer as well, undoubtedly seeking heat, maybe thinking he was Anya. Ilarion's leg was thrown over his, and his arm was tucked against Taras' chest.
Their heads were close. Isaev's breathing was steady, near as Taras could tell, but it was Taras' lungs that rattled.
He went still, wondering if he should pull away before Isaev woke up, but then again, that would probably wake him immediately.
Ilarion's hip felt smooth and warm.
Taras frowned.
