Volgin's tone was harsh, he forced that harshness. Had to be strong for the both of them. Can't dwell on the past. Can't change the past. He could never take back all that he lost, not in his lifetime. He was aging, weakening from his peak and fading fast from what was left of his prime. He could never rebuild his Terrible City with what he had left.
He would die (again) a bitter man, unable to stop dwelling on it.
His hold on Raikov tightened. The younger man's face was pressed into that coarse, dull sweater, the hard, well-built pectorals underneath.
"You're all I have left, Ivan!"
(Don't cry.)
The Raikov at the Academy had recalled what happened to him, after his death. The recall made him a shivering heap, a shattered man quivering in his embrace: Left to his men, left to their appetites and desires, circling the man fallen from grace, ganging up on him before marring the snowy perfection he so treasured. Wolves. Wolves not unlike the ones he had once been tasked to cull.
This Ivan he now held was a perfect, clean Ivan, free of desecration.
The ungloved hand tried to slide beneath Ivan's clothing, to feel that back, to once again stroke the smooth skin. He felt it that other night, on that chair, the whole, unmarked person that was his beautiful Raidenovich. Again. He was pure and whole again.
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timeasmymeasure
no subject
Date: 2010-12-22 07:24 am (UTC)Volgin's tone was harsh, he forced that harshness. Had to be strong for the both of them. Can't dwell on the past. Can't change the past. He could never take back all that he lost, not in his lifetime. He was aging, weakening from his peak and fading fast from what was left of his prime. He could never rebuild his Terrible City with what he had left.
He would die (again) a bitter man, unable to stop dwelling on it.
His hold on Raikov tightened. The younger man's face was pressed into that coarse, dull sweater, the hard, well-built pectorals underneath.
"You're all I have left, Ivan!"
(Don't cry.)
The Raikov at the Academy had recalled what happened to him, after his death. The recall made him a shivering heap, a shattered man quivering in his embrace: Left to his men, left to their appetites and desires, circling the man fallen from grace, ganging up on him before marring the snowy perfection he so treasured. Wolves. Wolves not unlike the ones he had once been tasked to cull.
This Ivan he now held was a perfect, clean Ivan, free of desecration.
The ungloved hand tried to slide beneath Ivan's clothing, to feel that back, to once again stroke the smooth skin. He felt it that other night, on that chair, the whole, unmarked person that was his beautiful Raidenovich. Again. He was pure and whole again.
(Don't cry, you simpering idiot!)