Aryol's dark brows slanted low as he watched them walk away.

He wondered at the breezy, offhand chill he'd caught in Niotkuda's tone.

It was strange. He'd liked Niotkuda immediately, and thought Kasya's lover had liked him in turn, but the sudden ice in Niotkuda's voice went beyond mere teasing.

It hurt, like a sudden punch, and his lip curled, faintly.

"Don't choke," he called after Niotkuda, then turned away, back to Leshovik, who was watching him, blue eyes shadowed by the weight of a frown.

Aryol waited until they were out of earshot, then shook his head. "What was his problem?"

Leshovik snorted. "I don't think they like us very much."

"Speak for yourself."

Kasya had liked him just fine, Aryol thought. The older man had been a little cautious, as if hesitant to get too close, but not unkind because of it. That was all right.

They had time, now.

"He's not your father, you know," Leshovik said quietly, and that made Aryol laugh.

"He's my father."

"You don't know that."

Aryol looked at Leshovik, and smiled slowly, though one side of his mouth curled. "I do know it, actually."

He couldn't explain to Leshovik how he knew, not without having to explain a lot of other things he wasn't supposed to talk about, not even to his partner.

But the knowledge rested there where he could feel it, carefully tucked away in the back of Aryol's mind like a relic from the war found in the woods by a small boy, and brought home to keep in a box under his bed with other precious things. An accidental discovery, but no less treasured.

Leshovik shook his head.

"You're deluding yourself, Aryol. You're seeing what you want to see. You think he's your father. You think he's a good man. He's neither."

Aryol's jaw tightened, and he rounded on Leshovik, eyes flashing.

"Don't say that about him."

"You don't know him like I do."

Leshovik was glaring back at him, sharp features tight, body coiled and shoulders tucked like a pugilist spoiling for a fight.

Aryol raised his chin.

"What'd you do to him, anyway? Why didn't it work out? Were you a fucking asshole? Did he leave you?"

Leshovik flinched as if Aryol had hit him, and Aryol almost felt bad, but a sharp, vindictive part of him knew Leshovik deserved it.

Leshovik's cheekbones went as sharp as cut glass and just as pale.

"Don't," he snarled, "ask me what I did to Kasya. Ask me what he did to me."

Leshovik was shaking, Aryol realized, every muscle tense, vibrating like a bowstring held taut too long.

Aryol's gaze flicked down.

And hard. Predictably, conflict had made Leshovik stiff again, the bulge of his erection visible against the crotch of his fatigues.

It made Aryol hard in turn, to see that, to feel Leshovik's arousal rippling off him in palpable waves.

Aryol lifted his gaze.

"Let's fuck," he said, voice soft, but lightly goading.

Leshovik swallowed, and looked away.

"I don't want to fuck," he said quietly, after a moment, but Aryol laughed.

"You always want to fuck, Viktor. Come on."

Aryol carefully rolled up the target Leshovik had made for him, and tucked it under his arm.

He adjusted the strap of his rifle, then began to walk away, heading back to the quarters they'd been assigned.

After a moment or two, Leshovik followed.