Sick (Kirill/Soyka)
Title: Sick
Fandom: Eastern Promises
Pairing: Kirill/Soyka
Rating: R
Disclaimer: Wish I owned the boys, but no. Just playing with them.
Summary: There are no good secrets. Just secrets that get you killed.
Author’s note: Before you say anything, yes, I could’ve been cool like the rest of you and inserted some Russian, but the only Russian I know comes from either Night Watch or Eastern Promises (or Piknik, but we’ll just segue right past that, okay?), and kinky though it might be I didn’t want to use “It’s an order!”. That would’ve been a bit predictable, yes?
It’s all coming into focus. Like a misty veil lifting from my mind. Once the memories start seeping into your head, there’s no stopping it. I wish to fucking God I could stay oblivious, but I guess God isn’t on call at the moment. Last night, the pub, hid away in a cellar somewhere, people cheering and shouting - game night, was it? Arsenal? Doesn’t really matter, does it?
Spirits and cigarettes and I wasn’t alone. You want a party, you call Kirill, everyone knows that. He might be a pathetic little brat, but he knows how to enjoy himself. Maybe a bit too well. It’s eight and he’s already staggering trying to keep his balance, grabbing hold of me, laughing maniacally. I say, calm down, Kirill, calm down. Like he would actually listen to a word I say. He attempts to fix me with his unsteady gaze and says, Soyka, you fucking stiff, lighten up! We’re celebrating! And I don’t ask what we’re celebrating, because frankly, I don’t care. But I obey. I would be an idiot not to. To suppose Kirill is my equal is just that: idiocy. Even though he may act the underdog and call me brother that still doesn’t mean he won’t turn on me if he feels like it. So I keep him happy. I order us refills of whatever shit they pass off as liquor around here, and I keep my mouth shut. Soon I’m singing along with the same songs Kirill always sings when he’s drunk, and I’m happy, too.
You don’t disobey your boss. You don’t disobey your boss’s son. Not the son of the head of the vory v zakone. That’s probably why it’s a good idea not to get personally involved with Kirill. Not to socialize with him. And if I’d thought of that, maybe I could’ve avoided this whole fucking mess. Then again--if Kirill wants company, you don’t deny him. Not unless you’re an idiot. Because really, he’s offering you an advantage. You’re close to him, you’re close to power. Real power. And who says no to that?
It’s late, or really early, when I leave the pub, Kirill in tow. He’s loud, he’s shouting obscenities and I feel sick. I can feel him slip his arm around my waist and why not, he can hardly walk and now neither can I.
“Where’s Kolya,” Kirill asks, too loud. “He should’ve been here. He should’ve drunk with us.”
It’s always like this. He always asks for Nikolai. Can’t see why. Nikolai is quiet, controlled, focused - everything opposite of what Kirill is - not even when he drinks does he let go of that control, that self-discipline. Yet it’s always the same fucking story. Soyka, where is Nikolai? Where is Kolya? I see them together often nowadays. I don’t understand it. He’s got about as much personality as a lamp post. But I guess then there’s more room for Kirill’s ego.
“Fuck if I know, Kirill. Maybe at home polishing the stick up his ass. I don’t know.”
“Don’t have to be so fucking hostile, Soyka,” Kirill says, and it’s the strangest thing - he almost sounds offended. “Nikolai’s okay.” Without removing his arm from around my waist, he lights a cigarette, then coughs. “What you got against him, anyway?”
“Got nothing against him. He’s… ambitious. And until I see stars on his skin he’s no brother of mine.”
“He’s okay, Soyka,” Kirill repeats, breath sour in my face.
“Don’t care either way.”
We’re stumbling down a narrow alleyway. I think to myself, we must look pretty sad to the casual passerby. No people around these parts this time of night on a Tuesday, though. Totally silent and dark, just the sound of cars in the distance. I take a swig from the bottle in my hand and Kirill immediately halts me, laughing again.
“Bastard, where did you hide that?” he slurs. “Give here.”
I disentangle myself from him and pass him the bottle. He swallows the rest of it without even blinking. I’m impressed and I tell him. He just laughs again, throws the bottle away. I hear it smash against the ground. When I start walking again, he pulls me back, his hand on my shoulder.
“What?”
“I can’t. Soyka, I can’t go home. He’ll beat the fucking shit out of me.” He’s still laughing, saying this. I can’t hear this again. Sure, I pity him, but I’m not a fucking therapist. I don’t do… this.
“So, where you wanna go?”
“I don’t know. Don’t know.” He’s silent for a moment, looks down at nothing, then looks up at me again. “I could follow you home.”
And that shouldn’t be a problem, except it is. It shouldn’t feel awkward, except it does.
I can’t say no to Kirill. But I do.
“No, Kirill.”
“Why not?” Again, he sounds offended. Offended and pubescent. A spoiled child used to getting his way, getting people to do what he tells them to. It’s not the whole truth, I know, but then I don’t bother with the truth. He’s too complex to map out, and why would I want to?
Every argument sounds inane and ridiculous, but I use the first that comes to mind.
“Because your father will have me killed if I let you waste away and choke on your own vomit in my apartment tomorrow. In fact I think he’ll have me killed anyway for taking you out to drink tonight when he said he wanted you sober tomorrow.”
“Not my problem,” he says, smiling, patting me on the back. “Don’t be stupid. He won’t kill you. I wouldn’t let him.” And he embraces me. His breath is hot and damp against my neck as he says, “You’re like a brother to me.”
Like a brother. Except my own brothers would never embrace me like this.
I’ve been out with Kirill more times than I can recall - and the ones I do recall, I mostly remember very vaguely - and this is how it is. I don’t say anything. I keep him happy. If he wants to embrace me, if he holds on to me for just a bit too long, slips his arm around me when I know he’s sober enough to walk on his own, what am I going to do about it. There have been rumors for as long as I can remember. It’s uncomfortable. But he’s my superior. So long as no one sees us together like this and starts assuming things about me, he can hold me for as long as he likes. I can pretend it’s platonic and go home afterwards and not even throw up. I can choose to ignore it.
I hear him sniffle quietly. I’m not sure if he’s crying. It’s not unusual, and I wouldn’t blame him if he was, but I don’t like it. That, too, makes me uncomfortable. I’m not good with these things. So I just stroke his back. He presses himself up against me, closer, and I say, “It’s okay, Kirill. It’s okay.”
I’m not sure how long we stand like that, close, him sobbing dryly, me stroking his back and pretending it’s raining. I don’t feel sick anymore, instead I’ve fallen into a comforting numbness, which is why at first I don’t react when Kirill stirs, pulling his head back, and, eyes closed, puts his lips against mine. His cheeks are wet and bristly, his lips are soft and I’m too drunk to feel disgusted, but I pull back instinctively and mutter, “No, Kirill. No.”
Like he would actually listen to a word I say. He pulls me back in - he’s stronger than you’d imagine, than what I’ve imagined - and kisses me again. I want to push him away - you fucking queer, you disgust me, get the hell away from me… but I don’t. I stand perfectly still and let him go on. There’s no one around, no one to see this, and this does not make me a queer. I’m drunk, he’s drunk, he needs comfort. There’s nothing else to this. Nothing else.
I don’t remember getting home. What I do remember is as soon as we’re through the door, he’s tugging at my shirt, fumbling with buttons, desperately holding on to me, and I’m using up my last piece of resilience grabbing his wrists, stopping him. He looks at me, and I can’t decide if he’s angry, sad or just out of it.
“Kirill.” I’m fighting to come up with something to say that won’t send him over the edge. You don’t fuck around with Kirill. He’s unstable, unpredictable. You need to be cautious not to set him off. So what can I say? “Kirill, I’m not a queer.” Ridiculous, but to the point.
He shakes off my grip. His eyes glint at me in the dark - I can’t see very well, and maybe that’s for the best. He makes this sort of weird, half-muffled sound and I don’t know if he’s laughing or crying again. He’s silent for a few seconds, then retorts. Not with words. Like a viper attacks, he crashes into me, slamming our mouths together. I taste blood. His hands are around my neck, and when he pulls away, it’s by mere inches: he says, “Well, I’m not a fucking queer, either. You got that?”
The room is spinning, and against better judgment I cling to him to keep from falling over. Probably not my best move. I can feel his muscles tense under my fingers, around his upper arms - his entire body seems taut and tense. The only thought I can make out is, I should never have brought him here. Why did I, anyway? And the way he’s looking at me… the way he keeps touching me… this is absurd, why am I not fighting him off?
And why, when he leans in to kiss me again, do I open my mouth to him, let him wrap his filthy fucking queer tongue around mine, let his hands wander across my chest and backside? Why can’t I bring myself to throw him out when he’s starting to undo my zipper - and why, when he bites down on my lip and shoves his hand down the front of my pants, am I so achingly hard there’s not a single coherent thought left in my head, just the single-minded urge to have him keep touching me?
I would never be described as passive and no one would ever think of Kirill as especially dominant, but he pushes me onto the bed and I let him. He undresses me and I just lie there. Like I couldn’t stop him if I wanted to. Then, I’m not sure I could, but that has nothing to do with power, and everything to do with consequences.
And if my body responds to him, his awkward, rough caresses,… it’s obviously some psychological thing, has nothing to do with him, at all… if my hands drift to his back to stroke him… I feel scratches under my fingers, someone’s marked him, and for a fraction of a second I wonder who. Since my world’s still spinning around me like a carousel, I close my eyes so I won’t start feeling sick again, darkness takes me as he takes me in his mouth, slippery and wet, and either he’s practiced or he’s a fucking natural. And I’m no fucking queer because this isn’t happening, not with Kirill, drunk, extrovert, schizophrenic, but he’s so fucking eager, and when he’s sliding his tongue up and down my cock I can’t even pretend I care about who and what and why anymore; just thrust into him, my fingers nestled in his hair, and I am in upheaval. I’m gasping for air and he’s kissing me, I taste myself on his lips when he takes my hand and leads it right. The thought of this, what’s happening, my hand on his… it should make me heave, but I’m too caught up, the fact of what I’m doing eludes me. And Kirill is doing most of the job himself, anyway: I close my hand around him, he pushes into it, moaning into my mouth, and it’s not long until it’s done. He doesn’t say anything. Neither do I. He’s breathing heavily as he rolls over on his back, and I fall asleep.
He’s still sleeping, curled up and resting his head on my arm when I wake up. From the light streaming in through the window, I can tell it’s day. And it’s strange--waking up, I’m not panicking. I’m not going to pieces. Not at first. For a few minutes, it’s all good. Whatever. But the weight of him on my arm, his body against mine, eventually it dawns on me, becomes real, like I’ve been in some sort of trance and only now am I waking up to… us. And I know it’s the oldest fucking excuse in the book, but I keep repeating to myself, trying to get my arm out from under Kirill: I was drunk. I was drunk. I was drunk and I didn’t know what I was doing and it didn’t really happen, did it? Right. Because I would never… not with him. And excuses are all good for calming yourself down if you’re stupid enough to actually listen to them, but I’m not.
I drag myself into the kitchen, sit down and have a smoke. It doesn’t help. Thing is, there are a number of ways this could play out. And here I am, wondering about my options when none of them sound good. I want to walk out the door and keep walking until I reach Siberia. Hide out there until the next millennia. Obviously I can’t. I’m stuck here and all I can do is wait to see what he’ll do when he wakes up.
An hour or more passes before I hear the bed creaking as he stirs, the sound of him putting his clothes on. Now I’m panicking. Now the dread I’ve been nurturing turns into complete terror. I’m really, really not good with these things. What do you say in a situation like this? Is there anything I can say that’s going to make things good again? No. I wasn’t born yesterday. I know it’s never going to be good again. I can do a lot of things, but turning back time sure as hell isn’t one of them. So I’m bracing myself. I’m preparing for the worst. For all I know, he’ll come right in through that door and slit my throat. You don’t fuck around with Kirill. You don’t do anything to put yourself in a position to tear him down. There are no good secrets. Just secrets that get you killed.
The next sound I hear is the front door slamming shut. Minutes later, I’m still having trouble registering what just happened. I was expecting my funeral, but it appears my executioner up and left.
Was that it? That’s all?
Maybe I should feel relieved, but I don’t. I would’ve been more comfortable with a bullet through the head. The uncertainty, it’s gnawing at my insides, as if the hangover and torment alone wasn’t enough. Was that my death sentence walking out the door? I don’t know. I just want to be done with this. If he’d cut me up before he left, at least then I would’ve known. Is that too much to ask?
I can’t expect him to just let this go. I can’t expect anything. In fact even attempting to reason about this is probably a complete waste of time. Kirill doesn’t do rational. He doesn’t do simple. He’s about as reasoned as a hurricane. And no matter how hard I look I’m not going to find a universal solution to this problem. Trying to be logical about this and figure out what comes next, it doesn’t help me, either - I’ll still have to wait and see. Wait. How long do I have to wait? How long do I have to sit here in my dirty kitchen and look out the window waiting for someone to put up a billboard saying It’s all right, it’s over?
But I can’t do that either - can’t hang around here just waiting for the inevitable. A vor doesn’t give into cowardice. He doesn’t hide. And I would never kneel before anyone, but that whole idea conflicts with obeying Kirill, which is what I’ve always done and will continue doing, if I value my life. It’s pretty simple. I like keeping things simple. But things are nowhere near simple anymore. And I hate this stasis. Not knowing what comes next. Waiting for an order, for someone to tell me what to do. Waiting.
It’s just, it seems unfair. Unfair that this undeniable mistake, this slip-up, that it’s in his hands, that Kirill gets to decide what happens next. It isn’t even like it was my fault, right? We were both drunk, and he came on to me. He took advantage of me, with the whole pity me-act. That fucking depraved, perverted queer. He probably only did it to prove something. That he can do whatever he wants. And obviously, he had to get me drunk first, because I would never have allowed him to do anything like that to me if I had been sober. I’m no fucking queer. Queers don’t get to wear stars.
But that’s probably how he’s going to spin it, isn’t it? If anyone finds out about this, he’ll say it was all me. And who’s going to believe a soldier over a prince? My supposed brothers, they’ll carve the stars off my fucking skin. I won’t have anything left. Everything I’ve worked for, all gone. Forever.
Unless I beat him to it.
And maybe I’m being paranoid, but as I’m walking down the street to some anonymous pub to drown my headache in a few moments of sweet ignorance, as I enter, order, and take a seat in the darkest corner, I feel like everyone’s looking at me differently. Like they can just take one look at me and know. I’m almost certain the way they’re looking at me isn’t because it’s 3PM and I’m pathetically downing two shots of vodka a minute - that stare, I’m convinced it’s reserved for the vilest of the vile, lowest of the low, parasites of the community. The ones I now belong to.
But I’m not sick, like he is. I’m not depraved… when you think about it, I didn’t do anything… I didn’t encourage him in any way… not that it matters now. Not that anyone will care.
It’s all coming into focus. Like a misty veil lifting from my mind. Once the memories start seeping into your head, there’s no stopping it. I wish to fucking God I could stay oblivious, but I guess God isn’t on call at the moment. His hands on me, his lips against mine, the way his hair tickled my chest, it’s all coming back to me, and this is just a guess, but I don’t think it will ever leave me, no matter how many hours I log in places like this, how many bottles I reach the bottom of. And I know that it was just the alcohol messing me up, but it felt like nothing I’ve ever felt before, being with him, and I won’t ever be able to forget that. He has infected me like a malicious, deadly virus--I guess I am sick, after all. I won’t get rid of him.
God works in mysterious ways. What happens, happens, let it be, live and let live - none of that fucking new age shit is going to save me. Fact is fact, and no matter what I tell myself, I’m finished.
Fandom: Eastern Promises
Pairing: Kirill/Soyka
Rating: R
Disclaimer: Wish I owned the boys, but no. Just playing with them.
Summary: There are no good secrets. Just secrets that get you killed.
Author’s note: Before you say anything, yes, I could’ve been cool like the rest of you and inserted some Russian, but the only Russian I know comes from either Night Watch or Eastern Promises (or Piknik, but we’ll just segue right past that, okay?), and kinky though it might be I didn’t want to use “It’s an order!”. That would’ve been a bit predictable, yes?
It’s all coming into focus. Like a misty veil lifting from my mind. Once the memories start seeping into your head, there’s no stopping it. I wish to fucking God I could stay oblivious, but I guess God isn’t on call at the moment. Last night, the pub, hid away in a cellar somewhere, people cheering and shouting - game night, was it? Arsenal? Doesn’t really matter, does it?
Spirits and cigarettes and I wasn’t alone. You want a party, you call Kirill, everyone knows that. He might be a pathetic little brat, but he knows how to enjoy himself. Maybe a bit too well. It’s eight and he’s already staggering trying to keep his balance, grabbing hold of me, laughing maniacally. I say, calm down, Kirill, calm down. Like he would actually listen to a word I say. He attempts to fix me with his unsteady gaze and says, Soyka, you fucking stiff, lighten up! We’re celebrating! And I don’t ask what we’re celebrating, because frankly, I don’t care. But I obey. I would be an idiot not to. To suppose Kirill is my equal is just that: idiocy. Even though he may act the underdog and call me brother that still doesn’t mean he won’t turn on me if he feels like it. So I keep him happy. I order us refills of whatever shit they pass off as liquor around here, and I keep my mouth shut. Soon I’m singing along with the same songs Kirill always sings when he’s drunk, and I’m happy, too.
You don’t disobey your boss. You don’t disobey your boss’s son. Not the son of the head of the vory v zakone. That’s probably why it’s a good idea not to get personally involved with Kirill. Not to socialize with him. And if I’d thought of that, maybe I could’ve avoided this whole fucking mess. Then again--if Kirill wants company, you don’t deny him. Not unless you’re an idiot. Because really, he’s offering you an advantage. You’re close to him, you’re close to power. Real power. And who says no to that?
It’s late, or really early, when I leave the pub, Kirill in tow. He’s loud, he’s shouting obscenities and I feel sick. I can feel him slip his arm around my waist and why not, he can hardly walk and now neither can I.
“Where’s Kolya,” Kirill asks, too loud. “He should’ve been here. He should’ve drunk with us.”
It’s always like this. He always asks for Nikolai. Can’t see why. Nikolai is quiet, controlled, focused - everything opposite of what Kirill is - not even when he drinks does he let go of that control, that self-discipline. Yet it’s always the same fucking story. Soyka, where is Nikolai? Where is Kolya? I see them together often nowadays. I don’t understand it. He’s got about as much personality as a lamp post. But I guess then there’s more room for Kirill’s ego.
“Fuck if I know, Kirill. Maybe at home polishing the stick up his ass. I don’t know.”
“Don’t have to be so fucking hostile, Soyka,” Kirill says, and it’s the strangest thing - he almost sounds offended. “Nikolai’s okay.” Without removing his arm from around my waist, he lights a cigarette, then coughs. “What you got against him, anyway?”
“Got nothing against him. He’s… ambitious. And until I see stars on his skin he’s no brother of mine.”
“He’s okay, Soyka,” Kirill repeats, breath sour in my face.
“Don’t care either way.”
We’re stumbling down a narrow alleyway. I think to myself, we must look pretty sad to the casual passerby. No people around these parts this time of night on a Tuesday, though. Totally silent and dark, just the sound of cars in the distance. I take a swig from the bottle in my hand and Kirill immediately halts me, laughing again.
“Bastard, where did you hide that?” he slurs. “Give here.”
I disentangle myself from him and pass him the bottle. He swallows the rest of it without even blinking. I’m impressed and I tell him. He just laughs again, throws the bottle away. I hear it smash against the ground. When I start walking again, he pulls me back, his hand on my shoulder.
“What?”
“I can’t. Soyka, I can’t go home. He’ll beat the fucking shit out of me.” He’s still laughing, saying this. I can’t hear this again. Sure, I pity him, but I’m not a fucking therapist. I don’t do… this.
“So, where you wanna go?”
“I don’t know. Don’t know.” He’s silent for a moment, looks down at nothing, then looks up at me again. “I could follow you home.”
And that shouldn’t be a problem, except it is. It shouldn’t feel awkward, except it does.
I can’t say no to Kirill. But I do.
“No, Kirill.”
“Why not?” Again, he sounds offended. Offended and pubescent. A spoiled child used to getting his way, getting people to do what he tells them to. It’s not the whole truth, I know, but then I don’t bother with the truth. He’s too complex to map out, and why would I want to?
Every argument sounds inane and ridiculous, but I use the first that comes to mind.
“Because your father will have me killed if I let you waste away and choke on your own vomit in my apartment tomorrow. In fact I think he’ll have me killed anyway for taking you out to drink tonight when he said he wanted you sober tomorrow.”
“Not my problem,” he says, smiling, patting me on the back. “Don’t be stupid. He won’t kill you. I wouldn’t let him.” And he embraces me. His breath is hot and damp against my neck as he says, “You’re like a brother to me.”
Like a brother. Except my own brothers would never embrace me like this.
I’ve been out with Kirill more times than I can recall - and the ones I do recall, I mostly remember very vaguely - and this is how it is. I don’t say anything. I keep him happy. If he wants to embrace me, if he holds on to me for just a bit too long, slips his arm around me when I know he’s sober enough to walk on his own, what am I going to do about it. There have been rumors for as long as I can remember. It’s uncomfortable. But he’s my superior. So long as no one sees us together like this and starts assuming things about me, he can hold me for as long as he likes. I can pretend it’s platonic and go home afterwards and not even throw up. I can choose to ignore it.
I hear him sniffle quietly. I’m not sure if he’s crying. It’s not unusual, and I wouldn’t blame him if he was, but I don’t like it. That, too, makes me uncomfortable. I’m not good with these things. So I just stroke his back. He presses himself up against me, closer, and I say, “It’s okay, Kirill. It’s okay.”
I’m not sure how long we stand like that, close, him sobbing dryly, me stroking his back and pretending it’s raining. I don’t feel sick anymore, instead I’ve fallen into a comforting numbness, which is why at first I don’t react when Kirill stirs, pulling his head back, and, eyes closed, puts his lips against mine. His cheeks are wet and bristly, his lips are soft and I’m too drunk to feel disgusted, but I pull back instinctively and mutter, “No, Kirill. No.”
Like he would actually listen to a word I say. He pulls me back in - he’s stronger than you’d imagine, than what I’ve imagined - and kisses me again. I want to push him away - you fucking queer, you disgust me, get the hell away from me… but I don’t. I stand perfectly still and let him go on. There’s no one around, no one to see this, and this does not make me a queer. I’m drunk, he’s drunk, he needs comfort. There’s nothing else to this. Nothing else.
I don’t remember getting home. What I do remember is as soon as we’re through the door, he’s tugging at my shirt, fumbling with buttons, desperately holding on to me, and I’m using up my last piece of resilience grabbing his wrists, stopping him. He looks at me, and I can’t decide if he’s angry, sad or just out of it.
“Kirill.” I’m fighting to come up with something to say that won’t send him over the edge. You don’t fuck around with Kirill. He’s unstable, unpredictable. You need to be cautious not to set him off. So what can I say? “Kirill, I’m not a queer.” Ridiculous, but to the point.
He shakes off my grip. His eyes glint at me in the dark - I can’t see very well, and maybe that’s for the best. He makes this sort of weird, half-muffled sound and I don’t know if he’s laughing or crying again. He’s silent for a few seconds, then retorts. Not with words. Like a viper attacks, he crashes into me, slamming our mouths together. I taste blood. His hands are around my neck, and when he pulls away, it’s by mere inches: he says, “Well, I’m not a fucking queer, either. You got that?”
The room is spinning, and against better judgment I cling to him to keep from falling over. Probably not my best move. I can feel his muscles tense under my fingers, around his upper arms - his entire body seems taut and tense. The only thought I can make out is, I should never have brought him here. Why did I, anyway? And the way he’s looking at me… the way he keeps touching me… this is absurd, why am I not fighting him off?
And why, when he leans in to kiss me again, do I open my mouth to him, let him wrap his filthy fucking queer tongue around mine, let his hands wander across my chest and backside? Why can’t I bring myself to throw him out when he’s starting to undo my zipper - and why, when he bites down on my lip and shoves his hand down the front of my pants, am I so achingly hard there’s not a single coherent thought left in my head, just the single-minded urge to have him keep touching me?
I would never be described as passive and no one would ever think of Kirill as especially dominant, but he pushes me onto the bed and I let him. He undresses me and I just lie there. Like I couldn’t stop him if I wanted to. Then, I’m not sure I could, but that has nothing to do with power, and everything to do with consequences.
And if my body responds to him, his awkward, rough caresses,… it’s obviously some psychological thing, has nothing to do with him, at all… if my hands drift to his back to stroke him… I feel scratches under my fingers, someone’s marked him, and for a fraction of a second I wonder who. Since my world’s still spinning around me like a carousel, I close my eyes so I won’t start feeling sick again, darkness takes me as he takes me in his mouth, slippery and wet, and either he’s practiced or he’s a fucking natural. And I’m no fucking queer because this isn’t happening, not with Kirill, drunk, extrovert, schizophrenic, but he’s so fucking eager, and when he’s sliding his tongue up and down my cock I can’t even pretend I care about who and what and why anymore; just thrust into him, my fingers nestled in his hair, and I am in upheaval. I’m gasping for air and he’s kissing me, I taste myself on his lips when he takes my hand and leads it right. The thought of this, what’s happening, my hand on his… it should make me heave, but I’m too caught up, the fact of what I’m doing eludes me. And Kirill is doing most of the job himself, anyway: I close my hand around him, he pushes into it, moaning into my mouth, and it’s not long until it’s done. He doesn’t say anything. Neither do I. He’s breathing heavily as he rolls over on his back, and I fall asleep.
He’s still sleeping, curled up and resting his head on my arm when I wake up. From the light streaming in through the window, I can tell it’s day. And it’s strange--waking up, I’m not panicking. I’m not going to pieces. Not at first. For a few minutes, it’s all good. Whatever. But the weight of him on my arm, his body against mine, eventually it dawns on me, becomes real, like I’ve been in some sort of trance and only now am I waking up to… us. And I know it’s the oldest fucking excuse in the book, but I keep repeating to myself, trying to get my arm out from under Kirill: I was drunk. I was drunk. I was drunk and I didn’t know what I was doing and it didn’t really happen, did it? Right. Because I would never… not with him. And excuses are all good for calming yourself down if you’re stupid enough to actually listen to them, but I’m not.
I drag myself into the kitchen, sit down and have a smoke. It doesn’t help. Thing is, there are a number of ways this could play out. And here I am, wondering about my options when none of them sound good. I want to walk out the door and keep walking until I reach Siberia. Hide out there until the next millennia. Obviously I can’t. I’m stuck here and all I can do is wait to see what he’ll do when he wakes up.
An hour or more passes before I hear the bed creaking as he stirs, the sound of him putting his clothes on. Now I’m panicking. Now the dread I’ve been nurturing turns into complete terror. I’m really, really not good with these things. What do you say in a situation like this? Is there anything I can say that’s going to make things good again? No. I wasn’t born yesterday. I know it’s never going to be good again. I can do a lot of things, but turning back time sure as hell isn’t one of them. So I’m bracing myself. I’m preparing for the worst. For all I know, he’ll come right in through that door and slit my throat. You don’t fuck around with Kirill. You don’t do anything to put yourself in a position to tear him down. There are no good secrets. Just secrets that get you killed.
The next sound I hear is the front door slamming shut. Minutes later, I’m still having trouble registering what just happened. I was expecting my funeral, but it appears my executioner up and left.
Was that it? That’s all?
Maybe I should feel relieved, but I don’t. I would’ve been more comfortable with a bullet through the head. The uncertainty, it’s gnawing at my insides, as if the hangover and torment alone wasn’t enough. Was that my death sentence walking out the door? I don’t know. I just want to be done with this. If he’d cut me up before he left, at least then I would’ve known. Is that too much to ask?
I can’t expect him to just let this go. I can’t expect anything. In fact even attempting to reason about this is probably a complete waste of time. Kirill doesn’t do rational. He doesn’t do simple. He’s about as reasoned as a hurricane. And no matter how hard I look I’m not going to find a universal solution to this problem. Trying to be logical about this and figure out what comes next, it doesn’t help me, either - I’ll still have to wait and see. Wait. How long do I have to wait? How long do I have to sit here in my dirty kitchen and look out the window waiting for someone to put up a billboard saying It’s all right, it’s over?
But I can’t do that either - can’t hang around here just waiting for the inevitable. A vor doesn’t give into cowardice. He doesn’t hide. And I would never kneel before anyone, but that whole idea conflicts with obeying Kirill, which is what I’ve always done and will continue doing, if I value my life. It’s pretty simple. I like keeping things simple. But things are nowhere near simple anymore. And I hate this stasis. Not knowing what comes next. Waiting for an order, for someone to tell me what to do. Waiting.
It’s just, it seems unfair. Unfair that this undeniable mistake, this slip-up, that it’s in his hands, that Kirill gets to decide what happens next. It isn’t even like it was my fault, right? We were both drunk, and he came on to me. He took advantage of me, with the whole pity me-act. That fucking depraved, perverted queer. He probably only did it to prove something. That he can do whatever he wants. And obviously, he had to get me drunk first, because I would never have allowed him to do anything like that to me if I had been sober. I’m no fucking queer. Queers don’t get to wear stars.
But that’s probably how he’s going to spin it, isn’t it? If anyone finds out about this, he’ll say it was all me. And who’s going to believe a soldier over a prince? My supposed brothers, they’ll carve the stars off my fucking skin. I won’t have anything left. Everything I’ve worked for, all gone. Forever.
Unless I beat him to it.
And maybe I’m being paranoid, but as I’m walking down the street to some anonymous pub to drown my headache in a few moments of sweet ignorance, as I enter, order, and take a seat in the darkest corner, I feel like everyone’s looking at me differently. Like they can just take one look at me and know. I’m almost certain the way they’re looking at me isn’t because it’s 3PM and I’m pathetically downing two shots of vodka a minute - that stare, I’m convinced it’s reserved for the vilest of the vile, lowest of the low, parasites of the community. The ones I now belong to.
But I’m not sick, like he is. I’m not depraved… when you think about it, I didn’t do anything… I didn’t encourage him in any way… not that it matters now. Not that anyone will care.
It’s all coming into focus. Like a misty veil lifting from my mind. Once the memories start seeping into your head, there’s no stopping it. I wish to fucking God I could stay oblivious, but I guess God isn’t on call at the moment. His hands on me, his lips against mine, the way his hair tickled my chest, it’s all coming back to me, and this is just a guess, but I don’t think it will ever leave me, no matter how many hours I log in places like this, how many bottles I reach the bottom of. And I know that it was just the alcohol messing me up, but it felt like nothing I’ve ever felt before, being with him, and I won’t ever be able to forget that. He has infected me like a malicious, deadly virus--I guess I am sick, after all. I won’t get rid of him.
God works in mysterious ways. What happens, happens, let it be, live and let live - none of that fucking new age shit is going to save me. Fact is fact, and no matter what I tell myself, I’m finished.