The Communist Party
Who: Gay Russians, some dudes, maybe a party crasher, who knows, it's a little dorm.
What: Second Soviet Happy Hour (Julian Calendar's New Years)
Where: TD-24 (The Volgin Cave)
When: January 12, 2010
Warnings: Rated R for Russians
New Years was always a time for celebration for the two Soviets inhabiting TD-24. Christmas was a holiday favorite of the Capitalists, and something best scorned for any staunch Communist, so Yevgeny Borisovich Volgin especially had dedicated his efforts to condemnation. Santa Claus, Frosty, and the rest of the assaults on his dearest Soviet Red Heart was luckily stomached in the swaying haze of his hospital visits. It was the smallest blessing allowed in the weeks of misery following the fight in December.
Alas, as a last hurrah: Christmas Day kept him there one more day later. His stitches came out the day after. Discharge soon followed.
And the nonsense waned.
New Years was celebrated in peace.
The first one.
Yevgeny had been alive long enough to recall the calendar shift from Julian to Gregorian in his boyhood, a smoothed over memory that had been reinforced by later excuses to drink himself drunk until he bled alcohol on two days, comfortably weeks apart to dribble away any horrific hangover memories of the day after. Such wanton twins of indulgences had been standard when applicable, a tiny self-pleasure he had allowed even his men to partake in.
In the days when Groznyj Grad stood, its inhabitants had celebrated two New Years, as a result.
Today, it would be the second New Years the two Soviets would be celebrating together, since Yevgeny's reassignment to the mortal coil on a loaned life from the Infernal. Today, he was willing to share the last of his two Special Days with their acquaintances. Today, he was willing to be reasonably hospitable with his favorite drink.
'Tis the season, they say.
Whoever comes, they will arrive to Raikov's sense of red and gold decorating, and a very grounded room. There are no open metals or exposed electronics in immediate sight: The television and laptop are bulky with insulative material. The atmosphere itself reeks strongly of rubber and ozone and ... possibly something else, of the tiniest faint traces. Yevgeny himself is pretty comfortable on the couch that is not quite sized for him, quietly enjoying the first of what might possibly be many shots of liquor for the night. He still is dressed like an English fisherman, with that skin-concealing sweater with his overbuild self stuffed in it and the usual neutral trousers.
The window is currently broken, with duct tape meticulously tacked around it and insulation substituting as glass. Still, despite having the winter drafts mostly shut out, the room is a bit colder than normal, unknown if that is window's absence or the Russians' preference.
((You can use prose or brackets or make a thread, it does not matter.))
What: Second Soviet Happy Hour (Julian Calendar's New Years)
Where: TD-24 (The Volgin Cave)
When: January 12, 2010
Warnings: Rated R for Russians
New Years was always a time for celebration for the two Soviets inhabiting TD-24. Christmas was a holiday favorite of the Capitalists, and something best scorned for any staunch Communist, so Yevgeny Borisovich Volgin especially had dedicated his efforts to condemnation. Santa Claus, Frosty, and the rest of the assaults on his dearest Soviet Red Heart was luckily stomached in the swaying haze of his hospital visits. It was the smallest blessing allowed in the weeks of misery following the fight in December.
Alas, as a last hurrah: Christmas Day kept him there one more day later. His stitches came out the day after. Discharge soon followed.
And the nonsense waned.
New Years was celebrated in peace.
The first one.
Yevgeny had been alive long enough to recall the calendar shift from Julian to Gregorian in his boyhood, a smoothed over memory that had been reinforced by later excuses to drink himself drunk until he bled alcohol on two days, comfortably weeks apart to dribble away any horrific hangover memories of the day after. Such wanton twins of indulgences had been standard when applicable, a tiny self-pleasure he had allowed even his men to partake in.
In the days when Groznyj Grad stood, its inhabitants had celebrated two New Years, as a result.
Today, it would be the second New Years the two Soviets would be celebrating together, since Yevgeny's reassignment to the mortal coil on a loaned life from the Infernal. Today, he was willing to share the last of his two Special Days with their acquaintances. Today, he was willing to be reasonably hospitable with his favorite drink.
'Tis the season, they say.
Whoever comes, they will arrive to Raikov's sense of red and gold decorating, and a very grounded room. There are no open metals or exposed electronics in immediate sight: The television and laptop are bulky with insulative material. The atmosphere itself reeks strongly of rubber and ozone and ... possibly something else, of the tiniest faint traces. Yevgeny himself is pretty comfortable on the couch that is not quite sized for him, quietly enjoying the first of what might possibly be many shots of liquor for the night. He still is dressed like an English fisherman, with that skin-concealing sweater with his overbuild self stuffed in it and the usual neutral trousers.
The window is currently broken, with duct tape meticulously tacked around it and insulation substituting as glass. Still, despite having the winter drafts mostly shut out, the room is a bit colder than normal, unknown if that is window's absence or the Russians' preference.
((You can use prose or brackets or make a thread, it does not matter.))