*
It's there, still there, a past love's madness,
Dull pain and longing my heart fill.
Your image, hid amid the shadows
Of memory, lives in me still.
I think of it with endless yearning,
'Tis e'er with me though from me far,
Unreachable, unchanged, bright-burning
As in the sky of night a star...
---Fyodor Tyutchev
*
Christmas shows the Trans-Siberian off to its fullest advantage, for at this time of year, its charm unfolds itself like a liturgy designed to nourish the senses. Glowing wood, crimson banquettes, and gilt ribbons entwined with tiny white lights are surrounded by walls the deep bosky green of a bor, embracing and enclosing the diners in warmth and sublime comfort. A medley of fragrances tantalizes the nose, enticing patrons to order and share several dishes so as not to miss any elusive aromatic or gastronomic pleasure. The faint music of a balalaika shimmers in the air, sweet and sad, evoking a fairyland Russia of tsars and folktales.
Above the music, low chatter, and clinking of cutlery against expensive porcelain, a voice rises, loudly and carefully enunciating each word.
"Those fucking punters don't know who the fuck they're dealing with."
Nikolai offers a diplomatic smile to a well-dressed young couple, mouths unflatteringly open and filled with half-chewed chicken Kiev and blini, and then steers Kirill toward the kitchen. "Not so loud, Kirill," he murmurs.
"Fuck that. It's my fucking place, isn't it? You going to tell me what to do in my own fucking place?"
"No, of course not. But you're frightening the diners." Deftly, Nikolai propels Kirill to a chair in the kitchen and motions at a waiter for a bottle of vodka. He pours a small glass, but Kirill snatches the bottle from his hand and takes a long swig. Nikolai shrugs and drinks the contents of the glass himself.
"Fuck them," Kirill says, and takes another pull from the bottle. "I take Papa books, music, magazines, and the next week –" He waves his hand. "Gone. Confiscated. And then I have to tell him another two girls got picked up, and one of our fucking couriers disappeared. What do you think he said to me, Kolya? He called me a no-good useless little piece of pig shit." Kirill's voice thickens with tears.
Nikolai shakes his head. He can well imagine Semyon's impotent rage. He doesn't tell Kirill that Scotland Yard considers the old man a valuable piece of property still; he's lucky to have a cell to himself, to have escaped the rough and some would say appropriate justice meted out to child rapists in prison, to indeed still be alive. Kirill acts with a fierce loyalty that astounds Nikolai, who watched Semyon browbeat and ridicule his son for years. "Maybe better if you don't see him, Kirill."
Kirill's face sags in shock and sorrow. "I can't just leave him there, Kolya." All at once, his face transforms itself, the mask of tragedy alchemizing into comedy. "Hey, forget it. We'll go out tonight, you and me. Paint the town, huh?" He slaps Nikolai on the thigh and takes another swig.
Before Nikolai can refuse, a waiter approaches with a glass of vodka on a silver tray. "Excuse me."
Kirill glares. "What do you want?"
"It's for you, Mr. Luzhin." The waiter proffers the tray apologetically. "From the gentleman at table fifteen. He'd like you to join him if you have a moment."
Nikolai is too experienced to betray unease, but a slow shiver travels down his spine. He is a shadowy figure at the Trans-Siberian. He hasn't Kirill's gregariousness, nor his easy manner with people – when he's sober, at least. Few people even know his name, and he wants to keep it that way. There will never be glory in his work, even glory of a moribund stripe; he is fated to spend his life swathed in layers of obscurity. That someone has identified him is profoundly disturbing. "Did he give his name?"
"No, sir. He just asked if you'd join him."
A lopsided grin spreads itself across Kirill's face. "You have a secret admirer, Kolya?"
"So it seems." Nikolai plucks the vodka from the tray and moves toward the dim serenity of the dining room. It's impossible to see table fifteen from the concealing row of Christmas trees. He ruthlessly crushes his apprehension and steps into the open. When table fifteen comes into sight, he freezes, his breath caught high in his throat.
The man at the table lifts his head and smiles. "Good evening, Nikolai."
It has been – how many years now? Seven? Eight? Yes, eight years, and yet he is almost unchanged. Older, yes, the features craggier, the scars now only faintly etching their twisting, irregular roadmap, a clear testament to excellent plastic surgery, the glinting green eyes more deeply hooded, pearly threads of grey in the bright hair – but the dark-honey voice is the same, as is the impeccable dress and elegant bearing. Time has not changed Alec Trevelyan's essential exquisitely, painfully compelling nature; it never will. "It's been a long time."
"Too long. Won't you join me?" Alec waves a long hand at the empty place beside him.
Nikolai perches at the edge of the banquette. "What are you doing here?"
"Such a greeting. You wound me." Alec raises his glass in a half-mocking toast. "I wanted to see you, my friend. Is that so dreadful?"
"Not dreadful, no." Nikolai touches his glass against Alec's and drinks. "Unusual, perhaps. It's been a long time."
"Too long. I've spent the last few years in Petersburg. I have several business interests there. It's difficult to break away."
"Legitimate business interests?"
"Oh, yes." A wry smile curls at the corner of Alec's mouth. "Well, mostly legitimate. Capitalism is still rather trial-and-error in Russia, Nikolai. The lines blur at times. You understand, I'm sure." Alec takes the bottle of vodka, the restaurant's most expensive, from its bed of crushed ice and pours Nikolai another glass.
"Naturally." Nikolai lets the tiny glass of crystalline syrup sit untouched. He holds his drink extraordinarily well, but in the delicately balanced game they resume each time they meet, it pays to be as clearheaded as possible. "So – no further attempts to take over the world?"
Alec laughs. "I didn't say that, my friend. You did. Are you still trying to save it? Or has the glamour of the restaurant trade supplanted your nobler desires? I must say this is the last place I'd ever have expected to find you." He nods at Nikolai's tattooed hand. "Doesn't that put the customers off?"
"I stay out of sight."
"Of course you do." Alec regards Nikolai with curiosity. "You've scarcely changed at all." He sits still, a respectable distance away, but his voice is a feather-soft caress. "I've missed you."
Nikolai wishes desperately that his armor was better constructed, impervious to that voice, the sudden softness in those hard green eyes. He forces himself not to respond in kind. "So why are you in London?"
Alec shrugs. "Business. I can't stay long, I'm afraid. Will you join me for dinner?"
"He's busy." Kirill stands before them, bottle in hand, his brow furrowed into deep lines. "Aren't you, Kolya?"
Nikolai makes brief introductions. He notes that the contents of the bottle have diminished considerably. "I did some work for Alec in Petersburg," he says.
"So I was right. You do have a secret admirer." Kirill upends the bottle and gulps.
Alec greets Kirill in polite, cultured Russian. "Your restaurant is beautiful. Won't you join us for a drink?"
"What sort of work?" Kirill spits, ignoring Alec. "On your knees? Or with your fucking ankles in the air?" Neither Nikolai or Alec respond, and Kirill's face turns bright red. He sways on his feet. "I told you, you're coming with me tonight. That's an order."
Nikolai suppresses a sigh. Making Kirill believe that he's in charge isn't a challenge; he has a hundred well-worn but serviceable tricks at his disposal. It's preserving Kirill's dignity that is a near impossibility. His own dignity is irrelevant. "Perhaps just for tonight, Kirya –"
"You think I don't know what you're up to? You fucking queer." Kirill is visibly trembling, his face purple now with rage. Shouting is next, then violence. It doesn't matter that there are more than fifty patrons in the restaurant. Kirill hasn't the iron control of his father.
Nikolai glances at Alec, who takes out a silver box and lights a cigarette. He does not speak, but regards Kirill with steady contempt behind a friendly smile. Nikolai draws a breath. "Alec is an exporter, Kirya."
"Exporter." Kirill sets the bottle on the table and sits down. "Exporting what?"
Alec draws on his cigarette and smoothly picks up Nikolai's thread. "I'm in the flower trade."
"Is that right? From where?"
"Dalian," Alec replies with a shrug. "Sometimes Macau."
Kirill regards Alec with narrow-eyed suspicion and takes another pull from the bottle. "And you've come to do business with Kolya, is that right? You think he has the power to do those kinds of deals?"
"Actually, this was a social call." Alec pours himself another vodka and tilts his head back to let the liquid pour down his throat. "I've not seen Nikolai in many years. But if his captain –" he nods graciously at Kirill, "—is willing to discuss the possibility of trade, then certainly I'm willing to discuss business."
Kirill hesitates. Semyon's steely focus is not the only attribute he lacks. He detests mundane details of operation, willingly handing them over to Nikolai. Doing so endows him with freedom to drink and whore and, when he's sober, to take a hand in running the Trans-Siberian. It's a pity, in some ways; in another life, Kirill would have made a fine restaurateur. "You get the details, Kolya. You trust him?"
"Yes, yes, Kirill."
Kirill stands, looking a bit bewildered. He picks up the bottle, turns on his heel, and walks unsteadily away.
Alec exhales a plume of smoke. "Well played."
"Thanks." Nikolai tosses his vodka down and rubs his eyes. "Dear God."
"It's difficult to talk business here, don't you think?"
"Where would you rather talk about it?"
"I have a suite at Claridge's."
A smile tugs at the corners of Nikolai's mouth. Of course Alec has a suite at Claridge's. "Very well."
*
They waste no time. Once inside the suite, which seems to take up an entire floor of the hotel, Alec pushes Nikolai up against the door and kisses him roughly, his hands taking the liberties that Nikolai remembers only too well. He surrenders, letting Alec pin him against the wall, unbuckling his belt and unbuttoning his trousers to allow Alec further access.
Alec is on his knees, one hand insinuating itself between Nikolai's thighs, gently forcing them further apart. He cups Nikolai's balls in one hand and strokes the now rigid cock in the other. He closes his mouth over the tip of Nikolai's cock and swirls his tongue round and round.
Nikolai threads his fingers through Alec's hair, disarranging it. His English deserts him altogether, and he murmurs obscenities and endearments in Russian, drawing Alec closer, deeper, urging Alec to suck harder. He sees Alec's hand slide down between his legs, the long hand pressing against a stiff sex trapped in expensive wool. "Allow me," he whispers, and forces himself to pull away from Alec. He sinks to his knees on the sitting room floor of this ridiculously overpriced suite and unbuckles Alec's Hermès belt.
Quickly, Alec understands. He repositions himself, and within a moment they are suckling one another, half-dressed, fondling, caressing, melded together with complete abandon. The only sounds in the suite are low, muffled cries that grow softer, yet more frenzied as minutes pass. One after the other, they climax, and lay still, sated, exhausted.
Alec rises first, and holds out a hand for Nikolai, pulling him up with that hidden, wiry strength that hasn't diminished in eight years. Nose to nose, they're still the same height; they examine each other frankly. Alec smiles, wipes at the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand, and kisses Nikolai on both cheeks. "Handsome as ever, Kolyushenka. Come." He leads Nikolai into the sybaritic bathroom. They strip and shower in the huge glassed-in stall, reveling in the heat and their slippery bodies. Alec looks fixedly at the stars on Nikolai's chest, but says nothing.
They don the plush white hotel robes, and Alec orders supper from room service. "I didn't get dinner. How is the food at the Trans-Siberian?"
"Best Russian food in London."
"I'm sorry I missed it, then. But I think your captain might have impeded my digestion. He's like a dog snarling over a choice bone."
"Is that what I am – a choice bone?" Nikolai grins.
Alec shakes his head. "You ought to choose your friends more carefully."
"He would probably say the same thing about you."
"I see you're a captain yourself now," Alec remarks softly.
"Of sorts."
"That's a very dangerous game you play, my friend."
Nikolai shrugs. "We all play dangerous games. Did you come back to see your friend James?"
"James?" Alec's eyebrow quirks in amusement. "Hardly. That ship has sailed. He's not even the same man anymore. Then again, none of us are, I suppose."
"Well then." Nikolai walks to the window and looks out onto the city. There has been an unprecedented snowfall this year; Mayfair is ablaze with Christmas lights and the wintry gleam of snow. Further away, the kaleidoscopic wheel of the London Eye glows in every color of the rainbow.
"Have you Christmas plans, Kolyushenka?"
Nikolai considers the question. Every year, Kirill expects him to celebrate Christmas with the family – his long-suffering wife Katya, his sweet children, the aunts and uncles and cousins. There are worse ways to spend a holiday, but Nikolai dreads Christmas, and its aftermath, sodden with Kirill's remorse and self-loathing and eventual rage, of which Nikolai bears the brunt. At Christmas, Nikolai reminds himself that he must needs move in small, gradual steps, that a knife in Kirill's heart will solve nothing. And mingled with his own anger is pity; dangerous indeed.
He makes a decision. "With you, if you're free."
"I would like that." Alec moves closer and slides a hand down Nikolai's back, then pulls him into an embrace. His lips brush against Nikolai's earlobe. "I have missed you."
Nikolai closes his eyes. "I've missed you also, Alyosha." The truth emerges in a peculiar admixture of pain and relief. He rests his head against Alec's shoulder.
Alec calls room service to instruct them to leave the food outside the suite, then draws him toward the bedroom. It's huge, swathed in soft greys. The bed is turned down, waiting. They strip and climb beneath the luxurious sheets and duvet. Alec is extraordinarily gentle, kissing Nikolai's neck, caressing his bare hip. They twine together. Nikolai feels something long frozen thawing within him, yielding willingly. It aches.
"I can hear your heart beating, Kolyushenka."
Nikolai runs his palm over the smooth skin of Alec's back. "Is that what that is? I'm surprised I still have one."
"You always have. God help you." Alec kisses him again, and soon enough Nikolai forgets the ache and abandons himself to long-lost pleasures.
*
The moment he steps inside his flat, he knows: someone is inside. He slides his key between two fingers, ready to drive it into the intruder's eye, and then hears a snuffling noise and smells the unpleasant tang of a body sweating off vodka.
"Home at last, Kolya?" The voice is a sneer.
"What are you doing here?"
"Nothing much. Looking around."
Moving into the room, Nikolai turns on a lamp and sees the destruction that Kirill has wrought on his flat. Furniture overturned, papers scattered, broken glass on the floor. He sweeps his glance across the floorboards that conceal his other identity; they're untouched. He breathes a quick prayer of thanks. He stares at Kirill. "You bastard."
"Don't you call me that, you fuck." Kirill is steady on his feet. He takes three quick steps forward, and presses a knife to Nikolai's throat. "Spent the night with him, eh? Thought so. Exporter, fuck. Get on your fucking knees." His voice is oddly benign now, his eyes fixed on Nikolai's with the mild, half-focused eyes of a dreamer. "Go on, Kolya. On your knees."
Nikolai stands perfectly still, wrestling with the desire to end everything now. It would be a disaster, though. Kirill, drunken, raging Kirill is the unwitting key to dismantling the London vor, or at least crippling it. And Kirill has no idea what a suicidal sport he's embraced.
Kirill's mouth cracks in a smile. "On your knees, or I'll fucking gut you."
"Why aren't you with Katya?"
A mirthless laugh squeezes out of Kirill's throat. "She thinks I'm with a woman. She cries, you know that? And it's your fault, you goddamned queer." He pushes the blade against Nikolai's throat. "So you get on your fucking knees, now, and you suck me off, or I swear I'll kill you."
"All right." Nikolai slips his keys in his pocket and sinks to his knees.
"Unbutton them, you queer. You know how."
His fingers are steady as he unfastens Kirill's trousers. He makes no sound nor struggle as Kirill fucks his mouth, digging hard fingers into his head, forcing him deeper and deeper. He's done far more drastic and unpleasant deeds in the service of his country. This is only one more.
*
It is Christmas Eve; everyone works. Nikolai dices bread into cubes with a sharp knife and slow, methodical motions. Kirill stands as close as he dares to Nikolai, preparing an enormous turkey. He massages butter into its skin, sprinkles it with spices and salt, and garnishes it with citrons and rosemary. In a corner, Kirill's children wrangle good-naturedly over a sparkling pile of Christmas crackers, and his sad-eyed, pretty wife, Katya, sits with her dour mother, stemming berries for an enormous trifle. Both women are wearing long, sparkling dresses; Katya's dress displays her splendid décolletage. The male kitchen workers admire her from beneath lowered lashes, and ply her with samples of their artistry, but she only has eyes for Kirill. She's hurt when he ignores her, but yearns nonetheless, crawling like a peasant touching the hem of a king's robe. Nikolai aches for her, but not enough to tell her the truth about her husband, her disdainful and self-loathing king.
Kirill lifts the heavy pan and shows it to Nikolai. "What about that?" He is cheerful, as if the other night never happened. There's no particular reason he should remember, though. It certainly wasn't the first time he's forced himself on Nikolai, and probably won't be the last.
"Very nice." Nikolai tips the cutting board into a large aluminum bowl, scraping the wood clean with his knife. In a few hours, the family will assemble for drinks, singing, and the exchange of gifts. The dining room glitters in readiness; the waiters and cooks, paid double time to entertain Kirill's family on Christmas Eve, will make certain that every last blin and crystal bowl heaped with caviar and chilled silver tureen of sour cream is perfect. And Nikolai will be at Kirill's side, watching, as certain members of the family wonder bitterly how a Siberian nobody of a vor sits at the right hand of the king. "What next?"
"Chop those herbs." Kirill points with his knife. Two nights ago, he'd fucked Nikolai when Nikolai couldn't bring him to climax with his mouth. He'd held the point of the knife against Nikolai's ribs; Nikolai had waited for the agonizing pain of the blade to slide into his flesh. The tension in his body had brought Kirill to a quick finish. "Very fine, okay?"
"Yes, yes." Nikolai's mobile rings, and he moves away from Katya and her mother to answer. "hk2;."
"Kolyushenka." The voice is Alec's, but parched and ragged. "I need you."
Nikolai glances toward Kirill, but he is talking to Katya's mother, who glares at him with unfeigned suspicion. Nikolai turns toward the humming refrigerator. "Where are you?"
"I'm about twenty meters from the Trans-Siberian. Come out now. I'll meet you." There is a pause. "Please."
"All right." Nikolai disconnects the call and strolls over to the table. "Sergei wants a word. Something about the flowers for New Year's."
Kirill snorts in disgust. "He can't wipe his own ass without advice. All right. Hurry back, Kolya."
Nikolai leaves through the back door, making sure no one is watching before speeding through the alley. It's cold, snowing again. He looks down the street, then up. A nondescript car glides forward, its headlights cutting through the falling snow. Nikolai leans down and peers in the window.
The dark window rolls down to reveal Alec in the front seat. He wears a dark overcoat and leather gloves, and he blinks at Nikolai, and then jerks his chin toward the back.
Nikolai conceals his shock at the sight of two large bundles, wrapped in black bin lining.
"I have to get rid of them." Alec speaks calmly enough, but his face is white. Clearly he's dispatched whoever's wrapped in the plastic; is he frightened? It seems unlikely. Alec has done more than his fair share of killing.
"Don't worry." Nikolai opens the door and slides into the passenger seat. "Go to the stoplight and turn right." He peers over his shoulder, then back at Alec's pallid face. "What happened?"
"Their wallets are in the glove box."
Nikolai opens the glove box and withdraws the wallets, well-worn affairs of cheap leather. He examines the contents of each one and closes his eyes. "...."
"I thought you might know them," Alec says dryly.
"They work at the health club Kirill owns. Trainers. Day job." Nikolai sighs and shakes his head. "By night...."
"Yes, I gathered as much. It seems your captain is the jealous sort." Alec utters a small laugh brimming with ill-concealed anger and winces.
Nikolai frowns, then realization dawns. He gingerly draws back Alec's overcoat and sees two dark, glistening stains – one on his thigh, the other near his belly. "Alyosha – you need a hospital."
"I need to get rid of these two cretins. Then you can tend my wounds yourself. They sliced me. It's nothing."
"Let me drive."
"Just tell me where to go."
Sighing, Nikolai directs Alec to Nine Elms, to the water's edge. "Did you have your gloves on when they --?"
Alec leans back against the seat and closes his eyes. "Yes. It doesn't matter, though. I'm dead to the British, remember? Give me a moment and I'll help you."
"You stay there." Nikolai drags the bodies one by one out of the car and heaves them into the water. This is going to confuse the Russian desk no end, but there isn't time for a better solution. He checks the back seat, finding it spotlessly clean, then opens the driver's side door. "Move over."
Slowly, Alec slides into the passenger seat, leaving a smear of blood on the leather. "We'll have to get rid of the car."
Nikolai wipes at the blood with his handkerchief. "I can do that. How much blood have you lost?"
"Not much." Alec is mumbling now, his eyes closed in exhaustion or pain. "Can you take me back to the hotel?"
"Not a chance. We're going to my flat."
Alec manages a smile. "That's where I was when they found me. Pity you weren't there. It was quite a surprise. I must be losing my touch."
"You didn't do too badly, I'd say," Nikolai replies, but Alec is asleep or unconscious. Exercising every last shred of calm, Nikolai drives to his flat and parks behind the building. He glances around before dragging Alec out of the car and heaving him up the back stairs. Sweat beads on his brow and drips into his eyes. One of his gifts is serenity in the face of crisis, but this is no ordinary crisis.
He maneuvers Alec into the flat and lowers him to the bed. Working quickly, he strips Alec's unresisting body and examines the wounds. Alec is right – they're flesh wounds. His attackers, Vadim and Andrei, did a respectable job, however, before Alec got the better of them. The wounds are cut deep. There's blood everywhere, but it seems to have stopped altogether. Nikolai washes and dresses the wounds with alcohol and improvised pads and bandages of cotton sheeting, then covers Alec with blankets and watches anxiously while he sleeps.
*
A few hours later Nikolai reappears in the kitchen of the Trans-Siberian. Without speaking to the kitchen staff now lounging at the table with illicit cups of brandy-laced tea, he gets empty containers and begins filling them with food. Borscht, pierogi, blini, chunks of roasted turkey, trifle. He stacks the containers in two bags and retrieves his coat from the rack near the door.
"Where the fuck have you been?"
Nikolai turns to face Kirill. At this moment, he has murder in his heart, and has no compunction about letting it show.
Amazingly, Kirill discerns it, or something like it, for he steps back a pace. "I asked you a question."
"I heard you."
"So you answer it. Who the fuck do you think you are?"
Perverse pleasure bubbles up through Nikolai's anger. He offers Kirill a thin smile. "I was with Vadim and Andrei. For a little while."
The color drains from Kirill's face. "What were you doing with them?"
Nikolai doesn't bother to answer. He collects his bags and nods curtly. "Perhaps you can guess. Good night, Kirya." He turns on his heel and leaves the restaurant.
*
"I think I might have done you a disservice."
"Don't be stupid." Nikolai watches Alec eat, as stern as a mother hawk. "More borscht."
"It's superb." Alec takes another spoonful. "But don't change the subject, please. I've upset things. Surely Kirill will wonder why you've taken my part and helped dispatch two of his own lieutenants."
"I think he knows why." Nikolai's mouth twists in a wry smile as he thinks about Kirill's jealous rage.
"Yes. I see a few marks on your shoulders that weren't there the other night. But that's not what I mean. Surely he isn't totally incapable of making connections. Your cover might dissolve under scrutiny."
"No. Kirill...Kirill needs me. Worse, he trusts me. He'd never bring himself to believe I could betray him, even if he had incontrovertible proof of betrayal. Ragged as his pride is, it won't permit him to believe otherwise."
"You're too close, Kolyushenka." Alec puts his bowl on the night table and leans against the headboard. Most of the color has been restored to his face. "It's going to fall apart."
Nikolai touches Alec's hand. "It hasn't yet."
"I didn't come just to pay a social call."
"I thought not." A heaviness trickles into Nikolai's limbs. Alec has always had an ulterior motive. "Tell me, then. Why are you here?"
"I came to warn you. I've heard your name mentioned here and there in certain...well, less legitimate circles, let's say."
"Really? And what do they say in these circles?"
"Oh, it's all complimentary, I assure you. You're moving up in the ranks. But someday, some old thief from Ekaterinburg who's done hard time is going to hear your name, and he's going to say he's never heard of you. And then the problems begin."
Nikolai sighs and stands. He strips off his jacket and trousers – he'll have to incinerate them along with Alec's clothes, for they all bear bloodstains – and climbs into bed beside Alec. "That's why you came? To warn me?"
"Yes."
"I'm flattered." Nikolai takes Alec's hand again.
Alec scowls and snatches his hand away. "Be serious. Your friends Vadim and Andrei are only the beginning."
"I can't stop now, Alyosha. Don't you see that?"
"You're an innocent, Kolyushenka. It's maddening."
Nikolai leans over the bed and picks up his bloodstained trousers, showing them to Alec. "I'm no innocent. Don't delude yourself."
"You are, though. You seem to think you're actually going to achieve something for the common good."
"Perhaps I will."
Alec rubs his eyes and scrapes his palm against the stubble of his beard. "Even if you do, you'll never enjoy the fruits of your success. The Russian desk will pull you and reassign you, because your usefulness will be at its end. You'll be a perpetual exile, wherever you are. And you may never finish."
"I'll have to live with that."
"Then you're a fool."
"I'll have to live with that, too." He leans over and kisses Alec's cheek.
Alec grasps Nikolai's wrist and pulls him close. He thrusts a hand between Nikolai's legs.
"You're going to make yourself faint."
"I can use a taste of oblivion." Alec suckles on Nikolai's earlobe. "I can't bear the thought of that pig of a vor touching you, and I can't bear your stubbornness. Fuck me hard and help me forget it all." Alec guides Nikolai's hand to his hard cock and spreads his legs wide.
Nikolai shudders as he touches the bandage on Alec's thigh. If those bastards had killed him....
Enough. They have now, and now is all they've ever had.
He bends his head to Alec's nipple and teases it with his lips and tongue. Alec gasps, a shuddering intake of breath. Still there, still alive.
"That's it, Kolyushenka. Yes, yes."
*
It is Christmas evening. They have spent the day in bed, feasting on Trans-Siberian food and on each other. Claridge's has sent one of Alec's suitcases via messenger, a new hired car to replace the one that was stolen, and a new overcoat of meltingly soft black cashmere, thanks to some Bond Street clothier miraculously willing to open up briefly on a holiday.
Alec is quiet and withdrawn, watching the snow fall over London. Nikolai wonders if last night's brush with mortality has changed him in some imperceptible way. He's afraid to ask. Some part of him wants Alec to remain forever invulnerable. Last night's warning frightened Nikolai in a fashion that he can scarcely fathom – not for his own physical safety, but for the rime of ice that protects his heart and his soul. Alec has never probed so pointedly, so deeply.
Nikolai hands Alec a glass of tea and drinks from his own. "You're leaving."
Alec accepts the tea and sips, then shifts on the bed. The sheet covers him to the waist. His body is thinner than it was a few years ago. "Nikolai."
"What is it?"
"Come with me."
Nikolai finds himself unable to move for a moment. The tea glass trembles in his hand; he sets it down. "Alyosha –"
"You're wrong about Kirill. He'll kill you, you know, if he finds out the truth – no, when he finds out the truth. And it won't be the quick, brutal thrust of a knife. He'll make you suffer first, because he's a coward at heart." He gestures at a broken chair, at the cracked glass of Nikolai's television. "He did this, didn't he? He'll do the same to you."
"I can protect myself."
"Can you?"
Nikolai attempts a feeble jest. "Even if I can't, one mustn't fight their fate."
"God damn you," Alec whispers, and throws the sheet aside. He opens his suitcase and begins to dress.
"Alyosha," Nikolai says gently. "Alyosha, I can't leave now. There's far too much work to do."
"Very well. I shan't beg you, Nikolai." Alec knots a tie round his neck and pulls it close. He puts on his socks and shoes and shrugs into his suit coat. He pauses in front of a half-shattered mirror and stops. His shoulders sag; for once, he looks his age. "I could have given you everything."
Nikolai's armor is rent. He, not Alec, is wounded and bleeding. He feints with a cruelty. "It's the hunt you love, Alyosha, the game. Not me."
"Whatever you say, my friend." Alec turns to latch his suitcase, then withdraws a package. "Here. I brought this from Petersburg for you, but forgot to give it to you in the excitement of the past few days." He places it gently on the bed. "From one exile to another."
"Shall I open it now?"
"If you like."
Nikolai unwraps the silver paper to reveal a small icon of Saint Michael the Archangel. It is exquisitely rendered, the colors warm and true, the gold leafing extravagant. The eyes of the angel are serene and watchful and sad all at once. Even to his untrained eyes, it's a priceless object. "Michael, the Protector."
"Yes." Alec closes his suitcase with a decisive click. "Much good may he do you." He hefts the suitcase and walks to the door, limping slightly.
"Alyosha!" Nikolai leaps up and takes three steps toward the door. Yes, he wants to cry. I'll go with you, wherever you please. Don't leave. A shard of glass sinks into his bare foot, and he stops abruptly, wincing in pain. A little Christmas gift from Kirill.
Alec waits. "Kolyushenka?"
Nikolai reaches up and unclasps the medal round his neck. He moves forward, limping himself now, and takes Alec's hand, turning it palm-up. Carefully, he drops the medal and chain into Alec's palm. "Don't forget about me."
A smile of sudden, wistful sweetness crosses Alec's face. He takes the chain, fastens it around his neck, and lets the medal drop inside his shirt collar. "No. I won't."
"You're right. I may never finish."
"Then I may have to look in on you from time to time. Just to make certain that the archangel is doing his job." Alec rests his hands on Nikolai's shoulders and draws him into a kiss. "Farewell, Kolyushenka."
Wait for me, Nikolai longs to beg, but he cannot.
After the door closes, he sinks to the floor.
*
The kitchen is bustling as usual. The staff shouts and bangs spoons against pots, secretly glad to be back at work after too much family and feasting. The Trans-Siberian is a good place to work, Kirill's slides into drunkenness notwithstanding. Out in the dining room, hungry patrons wait for their dinners.
Nikolai steps into the kitchen, acknowledging the greetings of the cooks, the waiters and waitresses and busboys. They like him, his quietness, his reserve. Even at his most forbidding, he is never unkind.
Kirill is at the worktable, piping chocolate ganache onto a cake. He looks up as Nikolai enters. Hectic color stains his cheeks, and an expression of mingled anger, relief, and shame twists his face.
A sharp knife sits on the table, gleaming under the banks of lights. Nikolai picks it up, turning it over in his hands, contemplating it.
The kitchen staff stops their bantering and watches surreptitiously. Kirill wipes his hands on a dishtowel and stares at Nikolai.
"Is there anything you need, Kirya?" Nikolai asks in a soft voice.
Kirill swallows. "Chop those up, Kolya." He points to some onions. "But do it at that far table. I don't want them near the cake."
Nikolai scoops up the onions and takes them to the little table in the corner. He removes his coat and rolls up his sleeves. With smooth, steady movements, he chops. The pungent scent of onion drifts upward, and his eyes sting and tear.
Summary: It's there, still there, a past love's madness
Rated: NC-17
Categories: Crossovers Pairing: Alec Trevelyan/Nikolai Luzhin
Warnings: NoneChallenges:
Series: NoneChapters: 1 Completed: Yes
Word count: 5895 Read: 867
Published: 03 Jan 2011 Updated: 03 Jan 2011