It was raining hard; typical London weather. Nikolai had lived here for years, but sometimes the water still seeped through his skin and made him ache for the crispness and chill of snow.
Big Ben just chimed midnight—the witching hour—when Alec found him in a ratty little bar tucked in behind Victoria station. He walked inside, immediately attracting Nikolai’s eye like a shining beacon in the dark, dank sea of bodies in the bar.
"Are you looking to die?" he asked, and Nikolai looked up at him. Despite the years that had passed, Alec had not changed a single whit. Nikolai had felt the wrinkles set deeper furrows on his skin, but Alec still looked as beautiful and scarred as the first day Nikolai had met him, long decades ago.
"Not yet," he answered, taking a long drag of his cigarette.
The bartender shot him a surprised glance when he spoke, but Nikolai ignored it, his attention entirely taken by Alec, who took a seat beside him without asking. The man had always moved like a king, Nikolai thought; a king who knew that all he surveyed belonged to him, and there was none who would ever refuse him.
“They are looking for you,” Alec said. Nikolai waved to the bartender for a whiskey, straight, and when it came he placed it in front of Alec. His fingers fell to the counter, starting to tap a small beat even as he smiled and sipped at his own vodka.
“I know,” he said. “You know what they call me now?”
“Judas,” Alec replied, and he was reaching forward. Nikolai closed his eyes and turned his head, feeling the rough calluses of that hand against his cheek. There were scars there too, scars of burns long ago, when fires had almost consumed this man. It was ironic, that he was burned—wasn’t the sun supposed to be hotter than any fire?
He tipped his head back and drained his vodka, wiping his mouth with the back of his own hand.
“Yeah.”
“Come with me,” Alec said, and he left his whiskey untouched as he held out his hand. “You have a place near here, right?”
“Got a room. People who own it don’t like asking questions,” Nikolai said, and his voice was hoarse as he took that hand. Alec’s hand was warm, it was always warm. Warm like fire, like raw flames. “How do you know?”
“Haven’t you realised, Kolya?” Alec was stepping close again, his lips against Nikolai’s temple, his hand in his hand. Nikolai wanted to pull away; wanted to tell him that this wasn’t a good idea, because the bartender was staring and they were in public—but he could never deny Alec anything.
“I know everything about you.”
***
The sirens’ wails were loud and there were thundering footsteps, coming nearer and nearer. This was the last step now, and Nikolai could feel the chill of the knife in his boot. It was a small knife, a linoleum knife, and there was irony in this that made him smile at the man seated in a chair. Once upon a time, a lifetime and two years ago, Nikolai had almost been killed because of something this man did.
“Kolya.”
He turned around at the sound. Kirill sat on the chair, his hands wet with sweat upon his pants. He was one of the last ones; one of the last of the vor in Britain. The last pakhan left, and wasn’t that ironic? Kirill’s eyes were clear, no longer red-rimmed with drink, and he met Nikolai’s gaze for a moment before his eyes dropped to his boot.
Three hours ago, he had stopped shouting. Two hours ago, Nikolai had taken the ropes off of him, but Kirill still stayed in that chair. His hands were white-knuckled against the sides, his shoulders tensed. This was the first time he had spoken in the last hour. Nikolai had been counting, silently, smoking. The ashtray beside him was filled with cigarettes.
He was smoking now, slowly.
“You said,” Kirill licked his lips. “When I brought you to Papa, you told me, you will do anything for me. When Papa went to jail,” when Semyon finally died, brained by a water pipe in jail because no criminal like men who had sex with little girls, “you told me, we are partners now.”
“I did,” Nikolai said.
Kirill rubbed at his eyes, rocking back and forth on his chair. “If we are partners, if you said you will do anything for me, I want favour.” He waited, staring at Nikolai’s boot, but Nikolai did not answer. He merely waited.
“Vor should not go to jail,” Kirill said, and his voice almost trembled. “Papa disgraced vor by going to jail.”
That wasn’t all of it. Jail would be a terrible place for someone like Kirill; someone who, even after so long with Nikolai, could not help his gaze lingering on Nikolai’s lips, on his throat, on his ass. He could have taken any of them at any time, but Kirill never dared. Someone like Kirill, he would do terribly in jail.
“You have to tell me what you want, Kirill,” Nikolai said.
Kirill lifted his eyes, and his hand trembled by his side. He bit his lip, and said, too quickly: “Kill me, Kolya,”
There was vulnerability in his eyes that made Nikolai shudder inside, his heart—long shattered—splintering into further, smaller pieces. All sharp-edged, all cutting into his skin until he bled and bled and bled.
Kirill looked at him, pleading.
“Give me death, death like vor deserves.”
Nikolai remembered once, when Kirill would have grabbed at him, commanding him with his voice while his hands begged. Fuck this girl, his eyes once said. Fuck this girl now, so I can see it, and I can pretend. Now all the words from his eyes came to his mouth, and Nikolai wanted to throw up.
Instead, he said, “Okay.”
He took a drag of his cigarette and bent over, taking the linoleum knife from his boot. Slowly, he walked to the back of Kirill’s chair, putting one hand on the wood. It was a good chair, a strong chair, one of the few that remained after Kirill took over the vor in Britain and tried to throw out everything that reminded him of his father.
Kirill’s eyes were closed, and his lips were trembling. Nikolai reached out and pulled his head back, exposing his throat, and Kirill gasped, his eyes opening—and Nikolai kissed him. He kissed him with smoke still in his mouth, and Kirill was kissing back, kissing him hard and bruising, like this was everything he ever wanted. His hands clawed on Nikolai’s tailored Armani jacket, paid for by the cunts of whores and the brains of addicts, and Nikolai slit his throat.
Kirill fell over, the smell of smoke tainting his lips.
There was still blood on his hands when the police came in. Nikolai looked Yuri in the eye, and told him: Kirill was fighting, he wanted to escape custody. He was violent, he nearly got Nikolai’s knife. He left Nikolai no choice, he had to kill him.
The best lies, Nikolai knew, were the ones that hid a single grain of truth.
***
“You’re thinking of someone else,” Alec said as he pressed Nikolai against the wall. His cheek was smooth-rough-smooth against Nikolai’s cheek as he brushed them together. Like a cat, Nikolai thought.
“Yeah,” he said. “You called me Judas. Only natural to think of why.”
Alec chuckled; it was a dark sound, like the whiskey he always drank but left untouched on the bar that was now across the street. Nikolai took a trembling breath inwards, because it had never changed, Alec’s laugh. He could build his world around that sound; have it as the axis of his existence.
“He is no Jesus Christ,” Alec murmured, and he kissed him. Nikolai opened his mouth and Alec’s tongue was fire against his skin, pressing into every corner, giving him more warmth than the vodka ever would. He tasted of vodka, strangely, and Nikolai clutched at his arms, tipping his head back and sighing hard.
He let Alec slowly push him towards the bed, falling over it and forcing the breath out of his lungs. But it was alright, because he couldn’t breathe with Alec’s body pressed against his own, so hot that he thought he was burning up with fever, every inward breath he took like swallowing flames. His hands clenched around the sheets, and he wished Alec would make a sound, any sound, anything that would break the blanket of dead air around him, barely broken by the sounds of rain pattering the streets outside.
Nikolai arched, whispering Alec’s name, and Alec’s calluses were the same as he wrapped fingers around his cock. He stroked him slowly, and Nikolai closed his eyes as he curled himself into the touch, his toes curling against the cool sheets. Alec brought him closer and closer to orgasm before he backed off, over and over, and Nikolai cried out in frustration, reaching out with one hand, trying to give back as much pleasure—
But Alec twisted his fingers around the head of Nikolai’s cock, and the pleasure slammed him back against the bed. He shouted again as rough fingers began to stroke him hard, over and over, and when he came his eyes flew open, fixed upon the window, wanting to see the intense look in Alec’s green eyes- but he could only see himself.
“Alyosha,” he whispered, the first time he called Alec by his name. “Alyosha, let me—”
“Quiet now,” Alec shushed him, joining their lips together again. Nikolai was half-asleep, lulled by alcohol and orgasm and the warmth of Alec’s skin, but he leaned into the kiss still, his lips parting as he tried to get air to breathe.
“You didn’t—”
“This one’s for you,” Alec said, and his touch was sweet and gentle on Nikolai’s skin. “You can pay me back in the morning, Kolya. Sleep now, shh.”
“Morning,” Nikolai murmured. “Stay. Stay, Alyosha.”
He fell asleep before he could hear Alec answer.
***
When he woke, the rain had slowed to a drizzle and the sun was slowly climbing up the sky. The bed was cold and the silence pressed against Nikolai’s ears, but he was used to that. Alec never once stayed the night.
Not since Nikolai had seen him that one time, wreathed in those beautiful flames as he fell, burning from inside out.
That was alright; he would just wait until the next time. Maybe Alec would stay then. Nikolai would ask him to again, now that he had found the words with the British vor gone.
In the mean time, he would wait. He had grown used to waiting.
Summary: The vory v zakone falls. Alec visits. Nikolai waits.
Rated: NC-17
Categories: Crossovers Pairing: Alec Trevelyan/Nikolai Luzhin
Warnings: NoneChallenges:
Series: NoneChapters: 1 Completed: Yes
Word count: 1838 Read: 787
Published: 23 Aug 2012 Updated: 23 Aug 2012