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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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Date: 2010-03-05 10:50 pm (UTC)Cheslav guided Aleksandr's head under the spray to flush out the shampoo. He was impressed by the volume of suds, and how soft his hair was left in its wake.
He wiped his palm across Aleksandr's forehead, so as to not let any soap drip into his eyes.
"My son. My firstborn. I don't have to tell you what that means."
Cheslav recalled Ilarion, downstairs. He carried himself exactly like his father, upright, erect, shoulders squared in his well-tailored uniform.
"And...think of how it would be, to have your family far from you, in another city, with no communication. Not knowing if they had even made it over the lake, or if they had, if they would ever come back."
Alekandr's hair slipped between his fingers, very clean. Cheslav brushed it back in much the manner Aleksandr was accustomed to wearing it.
"They become unreal. Like a dream."
He started soaping down Aleksandr's neck and chest.
"I needed something in front of me, something real I could talk to, and touch. I needed a reason, and Taras was my reason. I don't know if I would have come out of it as well as I did, if I didn't have to fight so hard for both of us."
He paused then, and let his words settle. Aleksandr's body was firm, the skin under Cheslav's fingertips taut. He began to wash down Aleksandr's side, bathing him like a racehorse, in section by section, according to muscle group, his hands somehow finding the task wholly natural.
He supposed the play of muscle and flesh was something he was well used to.
"You know, I spoke with Ilarion downstairs. He looks so much like you in his uniform, it's uncanny. His face, his eyes."
Cheslav shook his head.
"And I also met his friend, Lieutenant Lidaov. I was impressed. He seemed like a fine young man."
In Cheslav's very private opinion, Liadov had also seemed like the sort of man who was wasted in the Ministry.
He paused, lips pressing together briefly, glancing down as he continued to wash.
"A shame you got to him before I did."