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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: 2010-03-06 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?"