He felt like he should hold himself rigid and not succumb in his moment of weakness, that he was here for Aleksandr and not the other way around. But Aleksandr's embrace had been impulsive and heartfelt, and had a vigor to it Cheslav could not deny.
He turned his head, and pressed his face into Aleksandr's wet neck. He let himself relax against Aleksandr.
"I don't talk about it," he whispered.
It was true. He remembered the time when Taras had looked up at him with round, solemn eyes and asked, do you have a papa?, and it had struck Cheslav as sad and strange and terrible all at once, that his son would wonder about the existence of his own grandfather in the present tense, as if Cheslav had merely locked him away in a spare room somewhere until Taras was old enough to meet him.
Cheslav had only said, he died before you were born.
He had not been able to bring himself to speak of Sevastian Tarasovich Oleksei, who had been larger than life in so many ways, built like a true hero of the state, massive and almost impossibly broad. He had a child's memory of his father's size and stature, but knew with certainty that Sevastian had towered over every other man he'd met, even his other butcher-comrades.
Cheslav had never known another man with such capacity for love and devotion, and who had been loved by so many in turn.
He was glad for the warm, wet water that coursed down around them. Aleksandr mercifully did not speak as the knot in Cheslav's throat tightened, then eased.
Cheslav pressed a fierce kiss to the side of Aleksandr's neck.
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timeasmymeasure
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Date: 2010-03-07 08:27 pm (UTC)He felt like he should hold himself rigid and not succumb in his moment of weakness, that he was here for Aleksandr and not the other way around. But Aleksandr's embrace had been impulsive and heartfelt, and had a vigor to it Cheslav could not deny.
He turned his head, and pressed his face into Aleksandr's wet neck. He let himself relax against Aleksandr.
"I don't talk about it," he whispered.
It was true. He remembered the time when Taras had looked up at him with round, solemn eyes and asked, do you have a papa?, and it had struck Cheslav as sad and strange and terrible all at once, that his son would wonder about the existence of his own grandfather in the present tense, as if Cheslav had merely locked him away in a spare room somewhere until Taras was old enough to meet him.
Cheslav had only said, he died before you were born.
He had not been able to bring himself to speak of Sevastian Tarasovich Oleksei, who had been larger than life in so many ways, built like a true hero of the state, massive and almost impossibly broad. He had a child's memory of his father's size and stature, but knew with certainty that Sevastian had towered over every other man he'd met, even his other butcher-comrades.
Cheslav had never known another man with such capacity for love and devotion, and who had been loved by so many in turn.
He was glad for the warm, wet water that coursed down around them. Aleksandr mercifully did not speak as the knot in Cheslav's throat tightened, then eased.
Cheslav pressed a fierce kiss to the side of Aleksandr's neck.
"Oh, Aleks. Don't leave me."