Aleksandr's eyes narrowed triumphantly even as his breath heaved and shuddered.
"Da, that's right," he gasped, "See how you like it, you fucked mouth."
Crude words, spoken on the ragged edges of his respiration.
At least the water was warm now; steaming, even, as they stood at an impasse, frozen in tableau, and the three luxurious jets pummeled their fully clothed bodies.
He became conscious of the peculiar odor of warm, wet wool. Aleksandr remembered it from the dacha as a child, when his baba would knit sweaters and scarves and full them in a hot bath.
It lulled him, the strange evocation of memory, made him fell drowsy and pliant.
He became conscious of the weight of wet wool as well, and the drag of his uniform on his already weary body, rapidly sapping any residual strength he had left.
Aleksandr's shoulders rose and fell like wings and he let his head fall back against the tile, closing his eyes.
"Fuck," he muttered, under his breath.
Aleksandr's fingers slowly went lax, as a wave of exhaustion washed over him.
It had been his last stand, the outburst, his bid for freedom - he had no more strength left to sustain that level of emotion.
He didn't want to relent, didn't want to concede autonomy to his brutal manservant, but after three days of channeling unceasing, thrumming misery like a high tension wire, physiology had betrayed him.
Now there was only grief, conquering his being, settling on his body, laying quietly over him like a blanket of snow, like a fine dusting of ashes.
"The coat," he murmured, in a soft rasp. "It's not ruined, is it?"
He paused, without opening his eyes. He couldn't face Slava, not after such a display.
Cheslav must have thought he'd gone crazy.
The sound of battering water drummed all around them.
"Her scent is all over it," he whispered, his voice hitching. "She'd been wearing it, that night - the night she -"
He broke off and let his lips fall closed, turning his head to the side, face crumpling.
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timeasmymeasure
no subject
Date: 2010-02-28 12:00 pm (UTC)"Da, that's right," he gasped, "See how you like it, you fucked mouth."
Crude words, spoken on the ragged edges of his respiration.
At least the water was warm now; steaming, even, as they stood at an impasse, frozen in tableau, and the three luxurious jets pummeled their fully clothed bodies.
He became conscious of the peculiar odor of warm, wet wool. Aleksandr remembered it from the dacha as a child, when his baba would knit sweaters and scarves and full them in a hot bath.
It lulled him, the strange evocation of memory, made him fell drowsy and pliant.
He became conscious of the weight of wet wool as well, and the drag of his uniform on his already weary body, rapidly sapping any residual strength he had left.
Cheslav's strength remained, untested, fresh, brawny.
Aleksandr's shoulders rose and fell like wings and he let his head fall back against the tile, closing his eyes.
"Fuck," he muttered, under his breath.
Aleksandr's fingers slowly went lax, as a wave of exhaustion washed over him.
It had been his last stand, the outburst, his bid for freedom - he had no more strength left to sustain that level of emotion.
He didn't want to relent, didn't want to concede autonomy to his brutal manservant, but after three days of channeling unceasing, thrumming misery like a high tension wire, physiology had betrayed him.
Now there was only grief, conquering his being, settling on his body, laying quietly over him like a blanket of snow, like a fine dusting of ashes.
"The coat," he murmured, in a soft rasp. "It's not ruined, is it?"
He paused, without opening his eyes. He couldn't face Slava, not after such a display.
Cheslav must have thought he'd gone crazy.
The sound of battering water drummed all around them.
"Her scent is all over it," he whispered, his voice hitching. "She'd been wearing it, that night - the night she -"
He broke off and let his lips fall closed, turning his head to the side, face crumpling.