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cheslav_olekseiLater, 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.
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.
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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.