Compassion Beyond Pity: Eastern Promises Fic
Author: Bitterfig
Fandom: Eastern Promises
Title: Compassion Beyond Pity
Pairing: Nikolai/Kirill
Summary: Nikolai wasn’t quite as heartless as he would have liked to be.
Beta-Reader: Fedink
Word Count: 740
Rating: PG
Warnings: Other than intoxication there aren’t really any warnings. Really this is pretty tame considering this is based on a David Cronenberg film
Author’s Note: This story is an expanded version of a drabble titled “The Driver”.
Disclaimer: This story is a work of fiction. Any illegal acts taking place within that fiction are NOT condoned by the author. Depictions of any questionable, illegal, or potentially illegal activity in said fiction does not mean that I condone, promote, support, participate in, or approve of said activity. I grasp the distinction between fiction and reality and trust that readers will do the same. I do not profit from the fan fiction I write, and all rights to the characters remain firmly in the hands of their creator.
Compassion Beyond Pity
They all drank, in the vory v zakone. Drank hard, cried and yelled at each other but Kirill was always beyond the rest, out of control and overflowing with rage. Even in his most hedonistic moments of vodka-fueled high spirits, the rage was always there. Rage at the father he loved fiercely and despised. The father who unmanned him, treated him as a wayward child, a dog that must be brought to heel. The father he feared to the point where he would yield, always yield, swallowing his anger. He would try and drink enough to wipe away the humiliation but it only got worse.
Most feared Kirill’s anger, or matched it with their own. Only Nikolai met his fury with calm. Blue eyes icy, a placid smirk on his lips he would watch Kirill’s almost nightly meltdowns from a safe distance but when Kirill had lost all control and all dignity, Nikolai would step forward. Lay a hand on the back of Kirill’s neck, press his forehead to Kirill’s and whisper that it didn’t matter.
Whatever it was, it didn’t matter. The endless conflicts with his father, his mishandling of business, the things people were saying about him, none of it mattered. Nikolai spoke softly, soothing, calling him brother, wiping the icy December rain from his face.
When Kirill pressed a drunken kiss on him, Nikolai accepted it. Parted his lips, sucked and twined Kirill’s sour tongue with his own.
“What are you, a queer?” Kirill asked as he pulled away, gasping for breath.
Nikolai smiled indulgently and smoothed back Kirill’s hair.
“If you say so.” He answered.
Kirill laughed manically, clapped him on the back, almost sending them both sprawling.
“We’re partners you and I,” he laughed, clutching tight to Nikolai’s coat. “Aren’t we.”
“Partners,” Nikolai agreed.
He was lying, they were not partners. They were not brothers. Nikolai had his secrets, his contacts in Scotland Yard. Where this would lead, Nikolai could not say. He was there to infiltrate Kirill’s family and to bring them down. He would do this, or he would die trying.
He was using Kirill, and Kirill deserved to be used. He was weak, he made it easy. He was regarded by most as an unworthy heir and a drunk. There were persistent whisperings that he was homosexual and Nikolai saw to it that these rumors reached his father’s ears, knowing they would make him deal more harshly with his son. Nikolai fed the tension between them, applying subtle pressure, as he watched, gathered information, waited for an opportunity to bring them down.
And yet his tenderness towards Kirill, his quiet tolerance of him was not a lie.
Nikolai Luzhin never lost control and yet there was a part of him he could not suppress, though it might in the end cost him everything he had worked for and probably his life as well. It was what compelled him to pass the names of captive prostitutes along to the police, what compelled him to help and protect the misguided little midwife who had found her way into their midst. Hard and ruthless as he was, in his heart of hearts Nikolai felt compassion beyond pity for those who could not help themselves.
Nikolai considered Kirill to be a reprehensible person, a sinner beyond redemption. Yet his compassion extended to Kirill because for all his sins and crimes and his status as prince of the thieves in law, Kirill was, in his way, one of the vulnerable ones. He was ruled by alcohol and anger, subject to his father. The world was a brutal, ugly place. There were men with knives in hand, waiting to slit your throat if you made a false move. Kirill was in their midst, foolish, reckless, out of control, not realizing the events he might set in motion or their consequences. One of the ones who could not help themselves.
For this reason, Nikolai couldn’t feel the revulsion he would have liked to at Kirill’s kisses. That part of him that continued to evade his control made him care far too much for the man, despicable and dangerous as he was.
They stood on the empty street, in the winter rain. Nikolai’s arms were around Kirill, half embracing him, half holding him. He pressed his cheek against Kirill’s and closed his eyes.
He would continue to use Kirill, but he would also continue to care.
Fandom: Eastern Promises
Title: Compassion Beyond Pity
Pairing: Nikolai/Kirill
Summary: Nikolai wasn’t quite as heartless as he would have liked to be.
Beta-Reader: Fedink
Word Count: 740
Rating: PG
Warnings: Other than intoxication there aren’t really any warnings. Really this is pretty tame considering this is based on a David Cronenberg film
Author’s Note: This story is an expanded version of a drabble titled “The Driver”.
Disclaimer: This story is a work of fiction. Any illegal acts taking place within that fiction are NOT condoned by the author. Depictions of any questionable, illegal, or potentially illegal activity in said fiction does not mean that I condone, promote, support, participate in, or approve of said activity. I grasp the distinction between fiction and reality and trust that readers will do the same. I do not profit from the fan fiction I write, and all rights to the characters remain firmly in the hands of their creator.
Compassion Beyond Pity
They all drank, in the vory v zakone. Drank hard, cried and yelled at each other but Kirill was always beyond the rest, out of control and overflowing with rage. Even in his most hedonistic moments of vodka-fueled high spirits, the rage was always there. Rage at the father he loved fiercely and despised. The father who unmanned him, treated him as a wayward child, a dog that must be brought to heel. The father he feared to the point where he would yield, always yield, swallowing his anger. He would try and drink enough to wipe away the humiliation but it only got worse.
Most feared Kirill’s anger, or matched it with their own. Only Nikolai met his fury with calm. Blue eyes icy, a placid smirk on his lips he would watch Kirill’s almost nightly meltdowns from a safe distance but when Kirill had lost all control and all dignity, Nikolai would step forward. Lay a hand on the back of Kirill’s neck, press his forehead to Kirill’s and whisper that it didn’t matter.
Whatever it was, it didn’t matter. The endless conflicts with his father, his mishandling of business, the things people were saying about him, none of it mattered. Nikolai spoke softly, soothing, calling him brother, wiping the icy December rain from his face.
When Kirill pressed a drunken kiss on him, Nikolai accepted it. Parted his lips, sucked and twined Kirill’s sour tongue with his own.
“What are you, a queer?” Kirill asked as he pulled away, gasping for breath.
Nikolai smiled indulgently and smoothed back Kirill’s hair.
“If you say so.” He answered.
Kirill laughed manically, clapped him on the back, almost sending them both sprawling.
“We’re partners you and I,” he laughed, clutching tight to Nikolai’s coat. “Aren’t we.”
“Partners,” Nikolai agreed.
He was lying, they were not partners. They were not brothers. Nikolai had his secrets, his contacts in Scotland Yard. Where this would lead, Nikolai could not say. He was there to infiltrate Kirill’s family and to bring them down. He would do this, or he would die trying.
He was using Kirill, and Kirill deserved to be used. He was weak, he made it easy. He was regarded by most as an unworthy heir and a drunk. There were persistent whisperings that he was homosexual and Nikolai saw to it that these rumors reached his father’s ears, knowing they would make him deal more harshly with his son. Nikolai fed the tension between them, applying subtle pressure, as he watched, gathered information, waited for an opportunity to bring them down.
And yet his tenderness towards Kirill, his quiet tolerance of him was not a lie.
Nikolai Luzhin never lost control and yet there was a part of him he could not suppress, though it might in the end cost him everything he had worked for and probably his life as well. It was what compelled him to pass the names of captive prostitutes along to the police, what compelled him to help and protect the misguided little midwife who had found her way into their midst. Hard and ruthless as he was, in his heart of hearts Nikolai felt compassion beyond pity for those who could not help themselves.
Nikolai considered Kirill to be a reprehensible person, a sinner beyond redemption. Yet his compassion extended to Kirill because for all his sins and crimes and his status as prince of the thieves in law, Kirill was, in his way, one of the vulnerable ones. He was ruled by alcohol and anger, subject to his father. The world was a brutal, ugly place. There were men with knives in hand, waiting to slit your throat if you made a false move. Kirill was in their midst, foolish, reckless, out of control, not realizing the events he might set in motion or their consequences. One of the ones who could not help themselves.
For this reason, Nikolai couldn’t feel the revulsion he would have liked to at Kirill’s kisses. That part of him that continued to evade his control made him care far too much for the man, despicable and dangerous as he was.
They stood on the empty street, in the winter rain. Nikolai’s arms were around Kirill, half embracing him, half holding him. He pressed his cheek against Kirill’s and closed his eyes.
He would continue to use Kirill, but he would also continue to care.