Aleksandr felt his pectoral twitch gently as Cheslav's broad hand swathed over it, slick with the glide of fresh soap.
A reflex.
His eyes raised, and he felt a sudden smile invade his face.
"So he pleased you, Nikasha," he said. "Not the seed of my loins, but mine nonetheless. Inasmuch as he's brother to Ilarion, he's a son to me."
He paused, brow notching faintly between his eyes.
"Sometimes I think - despite all that - he inherited more of my passion than Lasha. Lasha has many things of mine, of course. As you say, he has my face, and my form. He has my manner and my method. Ilarion is ruthless, driven; as he should be, and he is a credit to our house. All the same, I cannot always...comprehend the things that flit behind his eyes. He's...enigmatic. Perhaps that's as it should be. But Nikanor is golden; everything a prince should be, all that a father could want."
He glanced at Cheslav, whose casually penetrating eyes occasionally flicked up to match his, indicating his attention.
"His father, Grigorii Nikitavitch, was a hero who died in the war. His mother is a widow of the Motherland. Lasha embraced him at once, in that peculiar way of children...immediate, almost obsessive, their loves and hates -"
Or perhaps that was merely Lasha.
"- But in truth, I soon followed. I had only to look at Nikanor, speak to him. Even as a child his intelligence was obvious, his acumen was readily apparent, his curiosity hungry and insatiable, but he was always polite. Oh, so polite. He needed a father, someone to mold him, someone to shape him into a man - just as my Ilarion would. It was my honor to take on that mantle. Anyone could see he had great potential."
He broke off, mind drifting. Then he smiled apologetically and returned to the moment.
The spray and splash of warm water against naked skin. Humanizing, cleansing.
Slava, watching him expectantly.
"Izvinit," he said, slowly. "I was lulled, for a moment."
He leaned back against the tile, wondering whether he should feel awkward or compromised by the situation, engaging in such familial intimacies with his silent shadow man. Whether it was unwise.
He cleared his throat softly.
"But Nika, Nika is a natural. He owns this work in a way that few men older than he can claim."
Aleksandr tilted his head slightly, regarding Cheslav with a curious expression, a breezy smile on his lips.
"I won't lie: it pleases me that he pleases you. But I can't imagine he's the type of lad you'd ever seek for your outfit. He's nothing like your son. What use would you have for him? He's a MENT through and though."
Cheslav made steady progress, soaping him up in a manner that was surprisingly mindful and lacking the brusque roughness he would have expected.
Aleksandr felt his lip curve in spite of himself, and his eyebrow raise of its own accord.
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timeasmymeasure
no subject
Date: 2010-03-06 12:09 pm (UTC)A reflex.
His eyes raised, and he felt a sudden smile invade his face.
"So he pleased you, Nikasha," he said. "Not the seed of my loins, but mine nonetheless. Inasmuch as he's brother to Ilarion, he's a son to me."
He paused, brow notching faintly between his eyes.
"Sometimes I think - despite all that - he inherited more of my passion than Lasha. Lasha has many things of mine, of course. As you say, he has my face, and my form. He has my manner and my method. Ilarion is ruthless, driven; as he should be, and he is a credit to our house. All the same, I cannot always...comprehend the things that flit behind his eyes. He's...enigmatic. Perhaps that's as it should be. But Nikanor is golden; everything a prince should be, all that a father could want."
He glanced at Cheslav, whose casually penetrating eyes occasionally flicked up to match his, indicating his attention.
"His father, Grigorii Nikitavitch, was a hero who died in the war. His mother is a widow of the Motherland. Lasha embraced him at once, in that peculiar way of children...immediate, almost obsessive, their loves and hates -"
Or perhaps that was merely Lasha.
"- But in truth, I soon followed. I had only to look at Nikanor, speak to him. Even as a child his intelligence was obvious, his acumen was readily apparent, his curiosity hungry and insatiable, but he was always polite. Oh, so polite. He needed a father, someone to mold him, someone to shape him into a man - just as my Ilarion would. It was my honor to take on that mantle. Anyone could see he had great potential."
He broke off, mind drifting. Then he smiled apologetically and returned to the moment.
The spray and splash of warm water against naked skin. Humanizing, cleansing.
Slava, watching him expectantly.
"Izvinit," he said, slowly. "I was lulled, for a moment."
He leaned back against the tile, wondering whether he should feel awkward or compromised by the situation, engaging in such familial intimacies with his silent shadow man. Whether it was unwise.
He cleared his throat softly.
"But Nika, Nika is a natural. He owns this work in a way that few men older than he can claim."
Aleksandr tilted his head slightly, regarding Cheslav with a curious expression, a breezy smile on his lips.
"I won't lie: it pleases me that he pleases you. But I can't imagine he's the type of lad you'd ever seek for your outfit. He's nothing like your son. What use would you have for him? He's a MENT through and though."
Cheslav made steady progress, soaping him up in a manner that was surprisingly mindful and lacking the brusque roughness he would have expected.
Aleksandr felt his lip curve in spite of himself, and his eyebrow raise of its own accord.
"Is this how you handle all your meat, Slava?"