The Visit

Feb. 18th, 2010 12:31 pm
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[personal profile] cheslav_oleksei
Later, Cheslav would always remember it was winter when Avdotia Isaeva died.

Cheslav Oleksei remembered the Siege as an eternal winter, even though he knew intellectually that the seasons must have changed during those two and a half years. Yet when he caressed the place in his memories that knew starvation and fear and aching desperation, squatting in bombed-out buildings and eating stringy meat nearly raw, taking his knife to the veins of a man for the first time and finding fleeting solace in the slow grind of hard flesh, that place, those memories, were grey and tinged with frost.

Now, there was real snow on the ground in front of the Isaev estate.

The estate stood as always, imposing and elegant, a tall historic townhouse facing the wide road. The snow around the curb been recently plowed but was blackened with mud from the tires of many recent visitors, like the first shadow of tarnish on silver.

Cheslav drove himself, and parked his white Moskvitch in front, instead of going around to the back like usual.

The night air felt crisp, and very heavy.

His breath streamed between his lips like smoke. Seeing it made him want for a cigarette.

There were few things Cheslav Oleksei denied himself, but he denied himself a cigarette now. Instead, his hand went absently to his pocket, and felt the weight of the bottle within.

Cheslav wore a black wool coat that spanned his broad shoulders and swirled around his boots as he walked up to the townhouse's front door. Above him, most windows were darkened save for a couple that were faintly backlit with the softest of warm glows.

No other signs of life.

He allowed it was possible that no one was home.

His heavy brow knit low over his dark eyes.

Cheslav had even features, for the most part, a straight Greek nose and squared-off chin, and a long, angular jaw. It was the thick brow that glided his face with a touch of menace, and betrayed his coarse birth.

Rather, both his jaw and his massive form, tall and thick with muscle like the butcher he'd once been, and Cheslav knew it mattered as much where you'd been as where you were.

He reached for the wrought iron knocker, but then changed his mind and rang the bell, instead.

Date: 2010-02-22 08:16 am (UTC)
From: [identity profile]
Silence answered him.

Moonlight and streetlights streamed through the tall, many-paned windows where the curtains were pushed back, spilling tall diagonal ladders over the thick persian rug and wide plank floors.

A single candle burned by the bed.

Aleksandr reposed in the armchair that sat in the suite part of the bedroom, a fair distance past the foot of the large, immaculately made bed, staring into the cold fireplace.

He hadn't shaved in three days. Beige stubble stained his jaw and neck. The perfect sweep of his flaxen hair was disheveled and lay in tousled disarray, as it would when he lay in bed after a pillow-crushing encounter.

Generally that was because a woman's hands had been gripping it, stroking it, clutching it.

This time the hands had been his own.

His eyes should have been redder considering the lack of sleep, but he hadn't been drinking.

Or eating.

The words were soft, definite, though it seemed as if they came to his ears belatedly and lingered like frost on a windowpane, until he wasn't sure if he had heard them or not.

If they were real or if his mind had created them, because his mind was tired and weak and weathered and eager to torture him.


Aleksandr's lips shook, but somehow he couldn't turn his head.

He closed his eyes instead.

The silence persisted.


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February 2010

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