![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2010-03-01 08:01 pm (UTC)He turned his head again, pressing his face to Aleksandr's wet temple briefly once more. Then he rubbed his palm against the back of Aleksandr's neck, as if chafing circulation into numb skin.
"We start with the basics. The things you take for granted until you don't have them."
Cheslav fell silent, frowning, wondering if he'd said something insensitive to a man who had just lost his wife. Aleksandr had spoken of something dark and terrible, a responsibility Cheslav did not understand. Was it survivor's guilt, or something more?
What he did know was that regardless of the circumstances of Avdotia's death, Aleksandr had treasured her in life. He had seen the way they had been together, and wondered at it. The closeness he'd seen between them, stolen intimate moments.
It was different from what Cheslav had observed when they'd drifted away from Avadya, moved on to whores and the occasional red-headed mistress.
He had always wondered about the transition, but had never questioned Aleksandr about it.
Cheslav flexed his shoulders and found that the weight of his fully soaked coat was fairly oppressive, even for him.
"Wait here. I'll be right back."
He stepped from the shower, trailing rivulets of water as he went.
First, he pulled off his coat and let it fall heavily to the floor. Then he removed his watch and wallet and set them on the counter, shaking off excess water.
After a moment's hesitation, he stripped off his knives and sap as well.
He eyed the puddled water on the floor briefly as he returned to Aleksandr.
"We made a mess, didn't we?"
Cheslav set about unbuttoning Aleksandr's jacket, his fingers deft.
"I know I was a little rough on you, Shurik," he said, stripping off layers of uniform with careful efficiency. "I'll make up for it now."