majorbonerkiller | FISSIONMAILED: Apartment complex

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FISSIONMAILED: Apartment complex

Well Ivan certainly didn't remember leaving the door to his apartment wide open, just beckoning squatters to come shit on his carpet--or even worse, eat his food.

Not that they weren't all squatters here anyway. Ivan crouched down near the door frame, pulling out his tranquilizer gun. He peered over the threshold, and took a chance, hoping his dog was still here--and still alive.

"Galina! Here girl!"

When he heard the familiar patter and panting he sighed in relief, ruffling her ears when she was close enough, "Good girl." Curse himself for smiling at a time like this.

Slightly more confident now with his canine comrade, Ivan entered the dark apartment, keeping his footsteps quiet and his tranquilizer at the ready.

And he almost immediately tripped over his own dirty laundry, screaming in the process of mid-falling terror. Luckily his amazing acrobatic skills (catching himself on the dresser) came to the rescue.

Moving forward towards the center of the room Ivan could hear--breathing. He baited his breath, trying to hold back any instincts to just start shooting up the place. He was fueled by a sort of cocktail of terror and anger--how dare somebody come waltzing into his apartment thinking they own the goddamn place?!

He padded closer, towards the sounds of life--they must be on the couch, since he just knocked his knee on the coffee table and had to hiss in silent agony a moment before going on.

Finally steadying himself he located the perpetrator's head after several seconds (a whole minute of squinting) and pressed the muzzle of his gun against it, "Get up!"

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It was a noble attempt, because Volgin was going to check through his bag and Raikov was not going to stop him.

Not only could the giant Soviet steel himself against the assault, he very well quickly was willing to end it with a harsh discharge utilizing the circuit made when both hands grabbed his person. It was enough to stun but not enough to really hurt the younger man in the long run.

Or so Volgin was intending.

He thought he caught a whiff of smoke, enough to ebb a little concern out of him despite his cultivated and various experiences involving the application of electrical current to warm, live human bodies.

And Ivan hadn't expected him to retaliate so swiftly. He'd wanted a fight, to bruise something but not necessarily get bruised in return.

But it seemed today wasn't the day to vent his anger as he let out a muffled yell bared behind gritted teeth; he was pushed off of Volgin from the jolt. It didn't really hurt him, more scared him than anything.

Although his limbs were shaking and the thin hair on the back of his hands and arms seemed to have singed off up to a point. He rose to his shaking legs once the most violent of his tremors wore off, and stormed to the bedroom to hide underneath the covers.

That static shocked him when he first tried to touch them. So he cried.

He should have known better, was Volgin's initial thought as Raikov recovered, then ran away. The whole time, he casually, indifferently surveyed the contents of his bag before slinging it around his large shoulder, toying with the thought of leaving.

Maybe.

Those trembling eyes tugged at a heart string that the giant thought he never could ever have. Those tiny whimpers he could catch bothered him, more than the usual curdling of pleasure as he flaked the tangy caking of blood off his knuckles before another go at shattering the poor fucker's worthless face.

He came to a realization:

He was bothered by this.

... He also hated being reminded that he was capable of some sympathy.

It really was hampering his original intent of getting the hell out of here, and out of the Nexus.

It was not long before Raikov could feel that bumbling monster's presence fill the room as he ducked his head upon entry.

Ivan sat on the floor, his back pressed against the bed and his knees drawn to his chest. Arms wrapped around them, face buried away.

His chest heaved as quietly as he could make it, but when Volgin entered the room Ivan sucked it up, wiping his face and climbing to his feet.

He headed for the door to leave.

Which involved the younger man trying to press past the wall in front of the doorway.

"Ivan," Volgin began, his voice soft. The authoritative barbs were lowered. "Where are you going?"

(He briefly checked the floor for any more additions to the toilet paper snowstorm.)

"To the kitchen," he replied with as much malice as he could muster into his voice; which wasn't much. Not with his eyes still wavering with tears.

He tried to push past Volgin before he could answer.

Surprisingly, he was able to shove the seven foot behemoth aside and continue along his way, even if Volgin was yielding.

He turned around, watching the other man's movements, tilting his head. On top of it all, the battered, scarred face was pulled into a noticeable frown.

And Ivan headed into the kitchen, ignoring the fading flurry.

He opened the fridge and pulled out a bowel, stuck it on the counter and started to eat the contents standing.

"It sure would be nice if I had a table," he verbally jabbed.

Volgin narrowed his eyes, bristling but remaining at the doorway.

"You could adapt and eat on the couch."

Ivan fell silent.

Remained silent as he moved over to the couch and sat down.

"Great, now there's nowhere to put a drink," he had to find something wrong. Had to.

"You don't have a drink," Volgin chuffed, maybe skimming an eye out for that offending dog.

"Shut up," he muttered back, concentrating on his food instead.

Oops. There might be a large Soviet joining Raikov on the couch, slowly going about it but his ass was very much pointing towards taking a seat near him.

Ivan shot him a look out of the corner of his eye and scooted to the far end of the couch. Away from Volgin.

This macaroni was delicious.

Alright, but that couch could not be too long, right?

Volgin watched Raikov eat for a few moments.

Then: A scoot.

Ivan tensed for a moment.

Then continued, eating faster this time.

A headtilt.

Scoot.

Another tense.

Ivan can't eat any faster.

Scoot.

Volgin was looking down at Raikov. Their thighs were touching.

Ivan was looking down at his food.

"It's not that bad, is it?"

He prodded his stomach with dejection.

Grunt. Volgin followed the thin, white finger to Raikov's belly. He gave it a considering look.

"It could use a little work."

A pause.

"Like mine."

He swallowed, and could feel a tinge of schadenfreude at Volgin's admission.

"I don't understand, I've been working out..."

"Your legs, likely. Not enough on your stomach."

As Volgin chanced death and destruction by lifting a hand towards the pot of macaroni. It smelled pretty good, even if he was ... a competent cook in the interests of appeasing the palette of the other Raikov he knew.

(The chef was accused of treason and was appropriately taken care of. Vanya was not pleased with this. Lover's devotion sometimes had Volgin broaden his horizons into a lot of stupid things.)

Fighting with dogs, tables, and Majors took a lot out of a man of his age.

"More sit-ups...," he sighed in defeat.

Ivan, in no mood to fight or make sudden movements, just lifted the bowl out of Volgin's initial reach.

"Mmmhmm," the giant rolled.

Not a completely successful attempt: Volgin still had a fairly good reach, enough to pilfer the spoon and what was clinging on to it. He helped himself to that, polishing the utensil with a few good licks.

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