*
It is late October in London, and rain beats ceaselessly against the windows and splashes into the gutters. The balmy temperatures have dissolved from memory, and those unfortunates who must leave the sanctuary of warm interiors arm themselves with the shields of their umbrellas, staring downward at the reflections of neon and traffic, knowing better than to search for an elusive patch of blue sky.
At times like these, when the whole world is leaden and grey, Nikolai sometimes imagines himself back in Russia: in Moscow, in Petersburg, in the dark, weary heart of his childhood home. It’s not difficult, for the trappings of Russia surround him. None of it is accidental, but there are moments when his reality seems diaphanous and cloudy, that the gloomily elegant interiors of the Trans-Siberian with its aromas of borscht and blini are a stage set, that the unspeakable acts of violence he witnesses (and to which he tells himself he has become inured) are illusions, that the black-clad men with whom he deals are gossamer phantoms, that the pain of Kirill’s violent assault is the mere figment of a dream. Nikolai closes his eyes and casts about for an easier memory. There are none.
The first time Kirill fucked him, it was rape. Nikolai had let his guard down and had drunk enough to become sleepy. When he’d awoken to discover his hands tied to the bedpost with his own tie, Kirill was already pounding away at him, grunting and cursing, three-quarters of the way to orgasm. When at last Kirill had rolled off, he’d muttered I always knew you were a fucking queer, Kolya, and had fallen asleep, one leg flung over Nikolai’s hip, leaving him to pick the knot out and stagger to the bathroom, blood trickling down the insides of his thighs.
But there are worse ways to earn a living, Nikolai has concluded, and so he routinely submits to Kirill’s rough and fumbling advances. Kirill’s moods are unpredictable. Most often, immediately after these encounters, he treats Nikolai with sneering contempt: You’re like a fucking woman, Kolya. Other nights, depending on the quantity and sometimes the quality of the alcohol Kirill’s imbibed, he brims with slurring affection, or cold silence, or brutal posturing, or remorseful tears. Nikolai bears it stoically, without words, quite often without pleasure, for Kirill takes no pains to give him any. But then – this is when Kirill talks, pressed close to Nikolai. About his father, whom he hates, fears, and adores in equal measure. About his children, who deserve a better legacy than his. About the whores he’s fucked, thousands to hear him tell it. About the shipments of cargo, all manner of cargo, that leave and come in – where and when and how much. About vendettas and debts of honor and the tyranny that he exercises so freely but understands so little. Nikolai listens quietly, filing information away in his orderly mind, slowly filtering the truth from the boasting and rationalizations, translating it into useful information.
Tonight they are in Nikolai’s carefully modest flat, above a shoe repair. Nikolai stares down at the sheets, close enough to see their texture. Instead of a flat, uniform blue, there are tiny flecks of white scattered here and there, like specks of cloud in a summer sky. Above him, Kirill thrusts and roots around, mumbling curses in Russian. His English deserts him when he’s aroused. Nikolai feels Kirill’s prick nudging his prostate, but there’s less pleasure than a joyless, automatic sensation of physical response. His own cock is only half-hard, mostly from rubbing against the sheets. Nikolai, divorced from his surroundings, makes no attempt to join in, nor to pleasure himself. When Kirill finishes, he sighs in relief, then grunts as Kirill’s body collapses atop his.
“Get the fuck off me.”
“Get the fuck off yourself,” Kirill drawls, but rolls off and lies on his back, panting and gleaming with sweat. He reaches down, pulls off his condom (a measure that Nikolai insists upon, after that first time; he waited for the test results with apprehension chewing a hole in his belly) and indifferently tosses it on Nikolai’s carpeted floor. Nikolai sighs, but says nothing.
“My God, this place is depressing, Kolya. All this goddamned rain makes it dark as a tomb in here. Why don’t you move into a decent flat? Don’t we pay you enough?”
“I send most of my pay to my grandmother in Kolchedan.”
Nikolai speaks with a deliberate lack of irony that confuses Kirill. After a moment, Kirill laughs. “She must be a fucking millionaire, then!” He slaps Nikolai’s arse hard enough to leave a bruise, then draws the sheets over his naked body and yawns. “I’m going to sleep for a while. Order some curry for later.”
Nikolai turns onto his back and switches on the bedside lamp. Kirill is right about the flat’s darkness. He picks up his book, its place marked with a Trans-Siberian matchbook cover. He opens it and begins to read.
Kirill, hating to be ignored even if he’s about to fall asleep, snorts impatiently and sits up. “Jesus Christ, don’t you ever stop reading that shit?”
“It isn’t shit. It’s brilliant literature.” Nikolai knows that if he doesn’t bother to answer, Kirill will wallop him. He tries for lightness. “Besides, it reminds me of home. Do you ever miss it?”
“Home?” Kirill leans close to Nikolai, the stars on his chest black compasses in the dimness. He spits over Nikolai’s body onto a pile of discarded clothing. “That’s what I think of home. This is home now. Don’t you fucking forget it.” He lies down and is asleep in moments.
The passage Nikolai reads is an old favorite; he knows it by heart and dwells on each word lovingly. Despite this, and perhaps because of the steady patter of rain against his windows, his eyelids grow heavy. The book sinks to his chest, and he too falls into slumber.
*
He walks in a sea of golden grain, where a path has been cleared for him. Distantly, he hears the sound of voices raised in song to the accompaniment of scythes. The music is odd, unharmonized, but strangely pleasing. A blue sky with clouds as fleecy as gamboling lambs gleams above him, and the sun is warm on his back. Joy and familiarity flood his bones; he’s been here many times before.
A house looms before him, a massive structure in the French chateau style. In Moscow or Petersburg it would seem a sham, a pretender to some ungraspable grandeur, but here it is exactly right, warmly welcoming and beautiful. And the man standing on the sweeping staircase waiting for him is -
More beautiful.
The man catches sight of him and waves. “Kolyushenka!”
Nikolai feels himself smiling. When did he last smile? No – he’s grinning, laughing with pleasure. He breaks into a run. “Alyosha!” He bounds fleetly up the stairs and embraces the figure, lean, fair, handsome, blessedly solid in his arms. He traces the tip of his finger around the rim of one elegant ear. “It’s been too long.”
“Far too long. What kept you?”
“Never mind, it would bore you to death.” Nikolai, one arm still round Alyosha’s waist, leans in and gently captures an earlobe with his teeth, then suckles. “I’ve missed you.”
“And I you. Come in – there’s tea.”
“No – stay outside. Walk with me. It’s a beautiful day.” Arm in arm, they stroll the grounds, their heads bent close to one another, their bodies touching. They walk past flower beds, on velvety carpets of grass, into a stand of larches artfully placed to look wild. They stop, and Alyosha rests, his trim uniform and perfect grooming a rebuke to the tree’s rough and untidy bark.
“Tell me what’s troubling you.”
Nikolai plucks at an overhanging bud and lifts it to his nose, inhaling the sweet and spicy fragrance. “I want to come home.”
“Dearest Kolyushenka,” Alyosha murmurs, taking his hand and drawing him close. “Is that all?”
“I don’t know.” Nikolai rests his head against Alyosha’s shoulder, drawing comfort from his strength. He has never spoken his true heart to anyone. His soul’s secrets are buried so deeply he doubts they will ever emerge from his surfeit of control – and even if they did, would he recognize them? His mouth opens; silence issues forth.
“You needn’t speak,” Alyosha says, kissing his neck. “I’m here. You’re home.”
And now, with a surge of desperate longing and unhappiness, Nikolai knows he is dreaming, that he has had this dream many times before. Alyosha, that paragon of male beauty, is a dream, his face and body that of a rogue agent he knew years ago, a man who betrayed him. Why him, why that face, that slimly muscular body? Simple enough. Nikolai had permitted himself to fall in love, an egregiously stupid mistake for which he would pay for the rest of his life.
“Never mind that, Kolyushenka. Come to me.” Alyosha is unbuttoning his dark-blue military tunic and letting it fall to the ground. He strips off his shirt and drops it beside the tunic.
But you’re not real.
“It doesn’t matter. You must take your pleasures where you find them.” Naked to the waist, Alyosha unfastens his trousers, exposing his hard prick. “I want your mouth on me.”
Nikolai drops to his knees without another word. He looks up at that face, the green eyes crinkled in good humor, the powerful nose, the smile bright as the sun. His heart clenches, and he closes his eyes, leans close and pulls Alyosha’s trousers lower. He presses his lips against the warm, smooth skin of Alyosha’s hip, then traces the tip of his tongue up the underside of the erect cock.
There is a moan from above.
Nikolai dips his head, opening his mouth wider, encompassing as much as he can. He is excruciatingly gentle, the way Alyosha loves it best, slow and rhythmic, drawing his pleasure out until long fingers thread through his hair and push him deeper, urging him to hasten. He obeys, tightening the suction of his mouth and tongue until Alec....
Alyosha
...comes in Nikolai’s mouth, thrusting and crying out. He sags back against the tree and laughs down at Nikolai, reaching down to caress his tousled hair. “Are you ready for me?”
Yes.
Alyosha turns, leaning against the thick trunk of the tree. His shoulders are strong and firm, his back long and graceful, golden-skinned, his arse wonderfully tight. Nikolai is ready, more than ready. He tears off his own tunic and shirt, desperate to feel the warmth of that golden skin. He spits into his hand and prepares himself with a few rough strokes. In one motion, he is inside, hilt-deep, thrusting up, shoving Alyosha against the immovable tree. Alyosha clings to it, moaning, pushing back against Nikolai with all his strength. Nikolai wraps an arm around Alyosha’s waist, closing around his cock, and grasps one wrist in his free hand. He pumps deep and hard until he shudders with pleasure and climaxes with a cry.
They sink to the ground, tangled together, half naked, exhausted and laughing. Alyosha holds him close and kisses him lingeringly. Nikolai yields to him. How sweet this yielding is, how unbearably sweet.
“I want to stay.”
“Of course.” Alyosha kisses him on the neck, then glances up as thunder rumbles in the distance. “It’s going to rain. We’d better get into the house.” He stands, buttons his trousers, and gathers his clothes. “Come along.”
Nikolai struggles to keep up, but a dragging slowness invades his limbs. “Wait for me.”
“I am. Come, hurry!” But Alyosha is far away now, at the foot of the stairs, beckoning. “Kolyushenka!”
Anguish coils in Nikolai’s stomach. “Alyosha –“ His voice is drowned out by a gigantic clap of thunder.
*
“Jesus!” Kirill is sitting up in bed, his hair rumpled. “Did you hear that?”
Nikolai lets out a breath. “Yes.” He rights the book, which has fallen from his hands.
“Did you call for that curry?”
“No.”
“Fuck it, I’m not hungry. Lazy arseholes probably wouldn’t deliver in this weather anyway.” Kirill reclines again and drapes a leg over Nikolai’s hip. It’s a habit Nikolai hates. Kirill nuzzles Nikolai’s neck, then his ear. “We’re brothers, right?”
Sick with disappointment, Nikolai cannot immediately find the voice to answer. “Brothers,” he finally manages. Satisfied and not noticing Nikolai’s response is not agreement, Kirill falls asleep again, leaving Nikolai to listen to the cold October rain.
Summary: Tread carefully, for you tread on my dreams.
Rated: NC-17
Categories: Crossovers Pairing: Nikolai Luzhin/Alexei Vronsky
Warnings: NoneChallenges:
Series: NoneChapters: 1 Completed: Yes
Word count: 2144 Read: 717
Published: 01 Nov 2009 Updated: 01 Nov 2009